


And Then It Gets Better

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: The Hunter and His Boy [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Claustrophobia, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Fluff, France (Country), Grief/Mourning, M/M, Makeup, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse (Non-Sexual), Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Trust Issues, Wakes & Funerals, if this were a less serious fic i'd tag it as Sugar Daddy, isaac is very very pretty and chris buys him many pretty things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-26 16:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6246676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where they have no one else, they find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They buried Allison in a grave beside her mother.

There was a small funeral, a private one, and Chris didn’t invite the Hunters. That world had destroyed Allison. That world had put her, his beautiful daughter, in the ground, and it would not come to her funeral.

She was buried with flowers, long hair out around her shoulders, her skin smooth and pale as death. She was a corpse, and he did not cry. He did not allow himself to. When he spoke, his voice quivered, but he held it in. Just as he always had.

Her friends wore black. The boys in suits, Lydia with a black veil over her face, Kira holding a bouquet of black flowers. They all cried. They were young, and as yet unused to loss, and Chris mourned them too. They would soon be old; as old as he felt, as old as he knew he was. The world would no longer be bright. The joys and delights they experienced would be colder, tinged with darkness even when they did not think of death.

He had been living in that darkness for so long.

After the funeral, there was a small gathering, and he stood by himself and drank by a window. People came by, murmured sympathies, all genuinely felt, but he did not look them in the eye. He nodded, and drank. They left.

Scott came, eventually.

“I’m sorry, Mr Argent,” he said, voice breaking, and it was only then Chris realised who hadn’t come to the funeral.

“Where’s Isaac?”

“I,” Scott wiped his eyes on his sleeve, “I don’t know.”

Anger, unreasonably harsh, burst inside him. Allison had just died, and Scott didn’t even know where Isaac was- a member of his pack, a friend, a brother by his side. And Scott didn’t even care to find him.

He took a breath. Reminded himself that Scott was just a boy. Just a child.

They all were.

 

***

 

He packed all his things into the boot of his car and stood there looking at the culmination of all his time in Beacon Hills. A suitcase, a backpack, and a duffel. Just possessions. He could’ve taken less. He was leaving something else behind; something far more important.

Allison.

He closed his eyes as her absence cut into him. Loss was something he was accustomed to. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Isaac that he could compartmentalise, control his grief, continue on as he always did. What he’d left out was how much his strength disturbed him. He knew he was fragile, waiting to crumble, but he _wouldn’t._ He never did.

He yearned for weakness. He wanted to be destroyed, be torn apart, ripped at the seams, cut apart by memories and mourning until he was nothing more than pieces of himself. He wanted to be beaten until he bled dry. He wanted to be hit until his teeth were broken and his bones were dust. He wanted pain. He wanted to surrender.

But he knew he never would. He’d fight to the death because that was what he had been raised to do.

He closed the boot, harder than necessary. He heard a footstep behind him; on instinct, he turned, and his gun was out before he’d finished moving.

Isaac was standing with his hands in the air. His eyes were rimmed with pink, and he was no less put together than he had been the last time Chris had seen him. He was wearing a too-small shirt, ratty jeans, dirty Converses- the shirt had come from Scott. Chris had seen him wearing it before. Chris lowered his gun, ashamed, and offered a smile he knew didn’t appear genuine.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t come. To the funeral. I…”

Chris nodded, only just stopping himself from pulling Isaac into a hug, holding him close like he had in the doorway of the apartment, smothering his pain with quiet words and a strong embrace.

“I understand,” he said, instead.

“Can I come with you?” Isaac looked down at his torn shoes and cleared his throat, his expression plainly ashamed, but desperate; he hated asking for help. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Chris did not want this. He did not want another casualty of his daughter’s death, another broken heart, a young boy with more wounds than most could stand to live with. _What about your pack,_ he should’ve said, _what about Scott? You were living with him._

But he wasn’t a monster. He couldn’t be responsible for turning him away. He gestured to the small backpack that was slung over Isaac’s shoulder.

“Is that all your stuff?”

Isaac looked up, his face desperately hopeful. “Yeah.”

Chris nodded, heart constricting with the weight of the decision he was making. He smiled with as much honesty as he could muster. “Get in.”

Isaac smiled, a bright beaming grin, and Chris couldn’t help but feel his happiness, like a bright light warm against his skin. Allison hadn’t told him much, but he did know Isaac’s father had been cruel, and maybe even abusive.

He felt good about doing this.

It didn’t outweigh everything else he was feeling, but it was something.

The ride to the airport was mostly quiet. Isaac was staring out the window, a bitter thousand-yard stare that chilled Chris to the bone because that wasn’t the look of someone who was unused to misery; this was a boy who had lived in it, and accepted blow by blow with resignation.

“Have you had breakfast?”

Isaac shook his head. “No. I went to Scott’s, but…” He swallowed thickly. “Scott was crying in his mom’s arms, and I knew… I knew he didn’t want me there. I went in through the upstairs window, got my stuff and left.”

Chris adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “Could’ve been good for you, that arrangement. Allison told me you never had much of a family.”

The reaction was immediate. Isaac went stiff, and shook his head; a short, sharp movement, his jaw becoming tight and angry. “Don’t talk about my family.”

Chris nodded.

“…Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” _I’m hardly one to talk about stable families._ “We’ll eat on the road. Do you like pancakes?”

“Yeah.” Isaac paused. “I had a job in Beacon Hills. I’ve got some money. I can carry my own weight.”

Chris tightened his grip on the wheel. There was something about Isaac’s tone that made him itch. That self sufficiency came from fear. He’d been taught, at some point, that relying on others left him in pain.

“How much?”

“About five hundred.”

“Hold onto it. I’ll pay.” Because he knew Isaac would argue, he quickly said, “I was going to go to France.”

Isaac’s face went slack with shock. “ _France?”_

Chris couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah.”

“Wow. I guess… just drop me off at the airport. I’ll find a place.”

“…Do you want to come?”

Isaac turned his head and blinked. Chris met his gaze with raised eyebrows, showing that he was serious. Isaac stared for an uncomfortably long time.

“You mean it?”

Chris looked back at the road and laughed. “Here’s a tip about me, Isaac; I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Isaac lapsed back into silence. Eventually, in a stunned voice, he said, “Okay. Do you already have a ticket? Can you book one that quickly? I’ve never flown on a plane.”

Chris swallowed. The hole inside him opened up again, and he focussed hard on the road, resisting the urge to close his eyes and go to that dark, dark place.

“I had a ticket booked for…” _Say her name. Say her name. You owe her that._ “For Allison.”

Isaac nodded, and Chris knew he felt the emptiness inside him too.

Silence returned, heavier this time. As minutes ticked by, Chris was able to breathe easier, able to unclench his fingers and his jaw. He glanced at Isaac, but couldn’t read his face. He realised what he was doing; he was taking a volatile young man to another country, with no aims other than to run from the loss they’d just mutually suffered. How did he think that could possibly end? If he’d gone there by himself, he’d just have drunk himself unconscious every night. What would he do now that he had to be a responsible parent to a stranger?

Maybe Isaac would keep him from self destructing.

“France.” Isaac said, eventually.

“If you want.”

“…I don’t speak French.” Isaac pursed his lips, gazing out the windshield. The sunrise made his skin warm, made his curls shine with golden light. His eyes looked lost. Chris knew everything was moving very fast for him; he was a step behind everything that was happening. Trauma and grief did that. “It’ll be hard to get a job.”

Chris sighed, frustrated. “Listen, Isaac. I’m the adult here. I know adults in your life so far haven’t lived up to their responsibilities, but when you’re with me, _I’m_ taking care of you. You don’t have to get a job. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. Understand? _I’m_ the grown-up in this scenario. You don’t have to be.”

Isaac didn’t respond. It became unnerving after a while.

“Isaac?”

“…Thank you,” Isaac said, eventually. He stared out the window, a small, barely-there smile touching his lips.

The affection and gratitude in his eyes made Chris unreasonably, and unexpectedly, happy. He returned his attention to the road, and grinned.

 

***

 

They got to the airport. Chris booked through his luggage, and Isaac took his bag on the plane.

For a reason Chris didn’t understand, Isaac tensed up the second he stepped onto the plane. He looked around the small space, seeming to curl in on himself, shoulders hunching, fists bunching by his sides.

“You alright, Isaac?”

“Can I have the aisle seat?”

Chris frowned, alarmed when Isaac didn’t meet his eyes. “…Sure.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The flight was smooth, with barely any turbulence at all- certainly, it was the best flight Chris had ever been on. But Isaac sat through it white-knuckled, wide-eyed, his face pale. After three hours of politely ignoring Isaac’s struggle and assuming it was just nerves, Chris reached over and put a hand on his wrist.

“What’s _wrong,_ Isaac?”

Isaac blinked, swallowing, and said, “…Not a fan of small spaces. This is… enclosed. I don’t like it. I… I don’t like it.”

“Why?”

“My dad… He used to punish me by locking me in a freezer downstairs. He’d put a chain on the door so I couldn’t get out.”

Chris stared at him, stunned, for a moment trying to work out whether Isaac was joking or not. But he very quickly realised Isaac was telling the truth, and his stomach clenched, empathy sitting heavy in his gut.

“I can get us moved.”

Isaac shook his head. “No. No, I just, I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine here.”

“You don’t have to sit through this. I can help.”

Isaac laughed, a strange high-pitched helplessness threading itself through his voice. Chris, now determined, called a hostess over.

“Excuse me,” he said, “my son is claustrophobic. Could we get moved to the front of the plane, please?”

“Oh,” the woman said, eyes widening, “Of course, of course! You should’ve said so before.”

 

When they were settled into their new seats, Isaac was breathing easier, stretching his legs out in front of him, closing his eyes in relief.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, and Chris smiled with both sadness and affection; Isaac was used to doing it tough, and he wasn’t used to people going out of their way to make him feel better. He couldn’t help but think of his own childhood, but at the same time knew he couldn’t really relate; he’d been tied up as child, subjected to brutal training, witnessed terrible violence, but his father had never _locked him in a freezer._

 _And,_ Chris thought, chilled by the thought, _if his father did_ that _to him, what else did he do?_

More than ever, he saw the boy in front of him, and not the wolf.

“You said I was your son.”

He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, as if Isaac’s past abuse didn’t disturb him right down to his bones. “She was less likely to argue if she thought I was your father.”

Isaac smirked, and Chris recognised the return of a snarky teenager, a quick-witted and clever-tongued façade. “Yeah, because taking an underage kid to France without custody is probably weird.”

Chris rolled his eyes, smiled, sat back in his seat.

If he was being honest, he was just happy to see Isaac relaxed again.

 

***

 

Towards the end of the flight, Isaac was getting twitchy. He’d started to watch, and been unable to finish, six films thus far. He was tapping on the tray table, looking nervously around, gaze darting around the plane constantly.

“You’re making me nervous,” Chris sighed.

“I need to pee.”

Chris raised his eyebrows. “Then pee.”

Isaac glared at him. “Thanks for the advice.”

“What’s wrong, then?”

“…How big are the toilets? Are they… small?”

 _Ah._ Chris’ expression sobered, and he bit his lip in thought. Isaac looked down at his tray table, embarrassment plain on his features; he didn’t enjoy discussing his claustrophobia. Hardly surprising.

“They’re pretty small.” That was an understatement.

“That’s okay, I can last.”

“There’s three hours to go, Isaac. Tell you what, you go in, but don’t lock the door. I’ll stand outside, make sure no one comes in. You won’t be locked in.”

Isaac’s face was beyond distrusting, but he nodded reluctantly, and stood. He was too tall for the plane’s ceiling, and he bowed his head. Chris stood, and felt short, but he knew he was the pillar of strength between them. No matter his adult body and supernatural strength, Isaac was just a boy.

They went to the corridor, and there was one other person waiting in line. An older woman, with makeup caked over her wrinkles, and glary pink lipstick that matched her synthetic flower pattern dress. She smiled at Isaac, but Isaac was staring at his feet, lips moving as he repeated something to himself, over and over again. Chris smiled at her, and said, “He doesn’t like flying.”

She laughed loudly, waving a hand and saying, “Oh, I know, darling, it’s not fun is it?” She directed the question at Isaac, seeming not to take the hint.

Chris was glad when she went into the toilet.

“You okay?” He said, but Isaac shook his head, rolling his bottom lip under his teeth, sliding his eyes closed. “Isaac?”

He watched the movements of Isaac’s mouth, saw the words, _let me out,_ repeated over and over. He reached up, placed a hand on Isaac’s arm. Isaac breathed out shakily, his mantra interrupted, and Chris viewed that as a victory.

“You’ll be alright, Isaac. I promise.”

Isaac nodded, but Chris knew no part of him believed it.

A man came out of the toilet and shuffled back to his seat, and Isaac stood in the doorway, shaking.

“It’s too small. I can’t- I can’t do it.”

“You can go sit down, if you want. But the rest of the ride’ll be pretty painful if you don’t go now.”

Isaac hesitated, then turned around, eyes wide. “You’ll make sure I’m not locked in, right? You’ll open the door for me?”

Chris nodded.

Isaac went in, closing the door behind him slowly. Chris curled his fingers around the edge of it, holding it open an inch.

Very soon afterwards, probably only a few seconds over a minute, Isaac burst out of the toilet, hair falling over his forehead, hands trembling, breaths fast and loud. A couple, who’d been standing waiting for the toilet, stared.

“You’re alright, you’re okay.” Chris steadied him, hands on his shoulders. “Isaac? Isaac, look at me.”

Isaac did, his expression so helpless, so panicked, that Chris wished he could land the damn plane himself, just so he could end this.

“I’ve seen you fight. I’ve seen you do amazing things. Trust me, you can _do this._ Alright?”

Isaac nodded jerkily, still breathing too fast, hands gripping Chris’ forearms. “I- I can’t, I can’t,”

“You’re going to come and sit down with me. You’re going to watch a movie, and forget all about this. Then we’re going to get off the plane in France, and you’ll be fine. Okay?”

“Okay. Okay,”

“Breathe.”

Isaac did.

“Deeply. Slowly. Calm.”

Isaac tried. He really did, but all Chris could do was hold on and watch him hyperventilate. Hostesses nearby tentatively approached, wanting to help, but Chris resolutely shook his head at them, telling them to stay away. The couple who had been waiting for the toilet had left, politely going back to their seats. Chris was very thankful.

Eventually, Isaac stepped back, nodding to himself. “I’m-I’m okay. I’m good now. I’m good now.”

“Come on, let’s go.” Chris smiled, put a hand on his arm. “Good boy.”

The praise fell from his mouth before he could stop to think whether Isaac would be offended by it, but, thankfully, Isaac seemed to appreciate it; he smiled, brief but genuine, and Chris figured he wouldn’t have been given verbal approval often.

They sat down. Isaac was still shaky, but he seemed better. He put the _Avengers_ movie on his screen, the third superhero movie he’d tried to watch so far, and Chris watched it with him, stealing the occasional glance at Isaac to make sure he was alright.

 _Allison liked superheroes,_ he thought.

He closed his eyes as his heart began to pound, tears springing to his eyes like boiling water, breathed through it. Just like he’d told Isaac. _Deeply. Slowly. Calm._

When he finally opened his eyes, Isaac was looking at him.

“What?” He asked, gruffly, looking away.

“…I could hear your heart rate.” Isaac said, and it sounded like an apology. He looked back to his screen, and Chris glared out the plane window, wishing he _would_ cry, wishing he would grieve, wishing he would break down like Isaac could, wishing he would give in to it.

But he didn’t. He sat there, and he was fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be a while before I write the next chapter.... It has French in it, and I want to make sure it's right before I insult someone with my terrible use of Google Translate....  
> Anyway!! Hope you guys like what I've written so far! I'm just starting out, so I'd love for you guys to tell me what my writing's like down in the comments~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is French in this chapter, and I did my best to make sure it was right (with the help of a French-speaking friend), but if it's wrong, feel free to tell me!!

They arrived in Paris, and the sky was black. Isaac got off the plane, staring around, looking lost and forgotten in his dirty shoes and small shirt. He was still pale and unsteady, but he took a deep breath, eyes closing for a moment as he took in the open air. It smelled of aeroplane fuel and burning rubber, so Chris didn’t really understand the immense relief that crossed his face, but it comforted him nonetheless to see Isaac happier.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” Isaac smiled, stretching his arms up, making his too-small shirt ride up, expose his bare midriff. “Yeah, I’m good now. Thanks for getting us moved. Probably wouldn’t have made it otherwise.”

Chris dreaded to think of it- he imagined Isaac turning, in a plane packed with people, and it was a shudder-worthy thought. There wouldn’t be any logical way of containing that mess.

They followed the line of people streaming from the plane, towards the airport, shoes hard against the tarmac. Chris considered Isaac’s ratty Converses, and decided he’d have to do something about that. Derek and Scott clearly hadn’t had the time, or money, to support their packs properly. It was a sad thought, that Isaac had escaped an abusive family only to find himself wearing old clothes and strapping his shoes together with duct tape. Chris didn’t doubt Scott had been good to him- but he was just another young man. Isaac didn’t need a child taking care of him. He needed an adult.

Chris sighed to himself. He felt too tired to be a father.

_But,_ he thought, _maybe it’ll keep me alive too._

“What _time_ is it?” Isaac asked, sounding dumbfounded, blinking hard when they entered the airport, thrust under harsh lighting and chilling air conditioning.

“About four AM, I think.”

“What _day_ is it?”

“Tuesday?”

Isaac stared at him, stopping in his tracks- Chris gestured for him to hurry up, a woman and her child glaring at Isaac’s back as they nearly ran into him.

“I missed a _whole day?”_

“You’ve never flown before, have you?” Chris couldn’t help but find his awe endearing.

Isaac shook his head. “No, we could never afford it.”

Chris nodded. “Well. You can now.”

Isaac looked at him, and Chris could see an argument rising to his lips- _you don’t need to be this nice to me, I don’t need all this, why’re you doing this for me?-_ so he gestured to the baggage carousel ahead and said, “I’ll get my stuff and we’ll be out of here.”

Isaac paused, as if he were about to speak, but nodded, relenting.

 

Isaac, by his own insistence, was carrying Chris’ duffel. He followed Chris around, and Chris knew he’d have no idea where to go otherwise- he found himself frequently glancing back at him, reaching back and taking his wrist to lead him through crowds. It was unwarranted, he knew that. But he suddenly found himself very aware that this young man was now _his_ responsibility. And he wasn’t about to take him to another country and let him slip away in a crowd.

They went to the parking lot. Chris found his car, a rental Audi- nothing fancy, but it got him from A to B, so it was sufficient. He opened the boot, deposited the suitcase and the backpack, and then took his duffel off Isaac to put it in too. Isaac put his backpack in as well, and Chris couldn’t help but notice how tiny it looked. Isaac had, almost literally, nothing to his name.

They got in the car, and Isaac fiddled with the seat levers, eventually able to sit without his head touching the ceiling.

“Whose car is this?” He asked.

“Rental.” Once he was settled in, Chris started the car, and pulled out.

The traffic in Paris was, as always, a nightmare. Isaac didn’t seem to mind; he peered out the window curiously, leaned forward in his seat, and Chris couldn’t help but find his enthusiasm and curiosity endearing. He was like a little boy, going to a carnival.

“Hey, Isaac,” Chris rolled down the window, pointed into the distance- they were stalled in traffic, waiting for the congestion to thin out, “look at that.”

Isaac squinted at the vague triangular shape in the distance. “Is that…?” His eyes widened, and he grinned. “That’s the _Eiffel Tower._ ”

“If you’re impressed by a dot in the distance, you’re going to love where we’re staying.”

“Really? Why?”

Chris smiled. “You’ll see.”

 

When they got there, Chris paused to wonder how clean it was inside. It had been over a year since he’d been here, and it’d been empty all that time. The dust would probably be an issue.

He parked on the street, in front of the tiny four-storey, red brick apartment complex his family had owned for years. They rented the property out to Hunters, and other buyers, which financed owning the place itself. A vine crept up the front, curling and weaving around the balconies, and it was a picturesque little place. Chris tried not to think of Allison, of how much she’d loved it here, but it was hard. He took a deep breath, got out of the car, and steeled his nerves. He got the bags out of the boot.

Isaac wandered up onto the apartment, stared up at it. “Do you _own_ this place?”

“The family does. Has for a long time.”

Isaac laughed. “Wow. I never realised how poor I was before.”

Chris tried not to let the distaste show on his face, as he thought of who Isaac could’ve been if he’d been raised properly. The injustice of it was an age-old tale. Chris had always had money, and he’d never wanted for anything- he was a rich man, even if he didn’t feel like one.

They went upstairs, Isaac craning his head around, eager eyes taking in every inch of the white walls, the curving metal of the staircase, the patterns on the ceiling.

Chris went to the top floor, opened the door, stepped aside and let Isaac in first. The apartment was pale cream walls, simple beach wood floors and matching furniture. It was minimal and simple; Chris rarely came here, unless he was attending Hunter meetings or gatherings, or taking Allison on a holiday. Usually the two events had been linked.

The front door opened into a large living room, a bookshelf stretching the length of one wall, a television mounted on one of the shelves; a lounge and a beanbag, both dark leather, sat before the television and books, with white cushions and a low wooden table. A dining room table sat nearby, with four padded chairs. There was a door into the kitchen at the end of the living room, and three more doors; two bedrooms, and a bathroom. A simple setup, but it a spacious one; the other three floors had two apartments per floor, but this one took up the entire fourth floor.

“Sorry about the dust,” Chris said, dumping his bags at the doorway. “I haven’t been here since…” _Since last year. Allison and I came here together._

“…Wow,” Isaac breathed, standing still, lips parted in shock, “…this is…”

“Come with me.”

He took Isaac to one of the bedrooms. It had a wooden double bed, currently bare, the bed linen packed away- also populating the room was a set of drawers, complete with a mirror, and a wall-length cupboard set into the wall. It wasn’t much, in Chris’ experience, but the expression on Isaac’s face said it was more than he’d ever expected. Chris just hoped he wouldn’t realise who the room had belonged to originally- the vanity, the cupboard, had been covered in Allison’s clothes and makeup products, once. He pushed the memories from his mind, the memory of his daughter sitting in her bed, and led Isaac to the small window; through it, lit up in the early morning and framed as if it were a photograph, was the Eiffel Tower.

“Oh my god.” Isaac stared. “Oh my god, this place… I read about places like this in magazines, but I never imagined…”

“This’ll be your room.”

Isaac stared at him, and Chris- for a moment- thought he might lunge forward into a hug. But, instead, Isaac nodded, a wide and delighted smile growing on his lips.

“Thank you,” he said, and Chris shrugged, unable to keep an answering smile off his face.

“It’s about eight o’clock at night now, in America, but it’s only five in the morning here. You might feel tired, but I suggest you stay awake until tonight. That way, you’ll force yourself into this timezone quicker.”

Isaac nodded, still grinning, and Chris took a step back from the window.

“Would you like breakfast?”

 

***

 

They showered and changed. Isaac kept on the same jeans he’d worn on the plane, but thankfully had another pair of shoes- marginally whole, this time- and a plain black shirt that made him look less like an orphan and more like any other young man.

Chris took Isaac to _Le Petit Café_ which, true to its name, was a tiny little place. Despite how long it’d been since Chris had come there last, the owner- Eugène Arceneaux, the latest in a long line of Arceneaux men to own this place- greeted Chris with a firm handshake and two kisses, his flour smudged-hands hot and sweaty.

“Mon cher Christopher . Vous étiez parti si longtemps!” He said, laughing.

“C’est bon de vous voir, Eugene,” Chris said, smiling.

“Et qui est ce jeune homme, hmm?” He turned to Isaac, and held his hand out. “Un ami?”

“Uh,” Isaac blinked, and shook his hand tentatively, “I don’t…”

“Il ne parle pas français , je le crains,” Chris said, putting a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, smiling apologetically- he knew how Eugène felt about foreigners who couldn’t speak French. “Pourrions-nous avoir un table?”

Eugène shook his head, but smiled, throwing up his hands and getting them a table up the back, placing menus in front of him, muttering about uneducated Americans as he walked off. Chris wasn’t insulted. If he wanted to be around people who weren’t arrogant, he’d have gone to another country; as beautiful as the French were, they were an elitist lot.

“What was that?” Isaac demanded. “What did he say to me?”

Chris opened a menu, smiling to himself. “He asked who you were.”

“What’d you tell him? That I’m your son?”

Chris raised an eyebrow at Isaac’s sneaky smirk. “No.”

Isaac picked up a menu and frowned at the pages before him. “…There’s gonna be a small problem with me staying here, you know.”

“Most places have English translations. Eugène despises tourists, so he’s an exception.”

“Good to know you chose an easy place for my first time out,” Isaac muttered, no real heat in his words. “Can you pick something for me?”

“How do you feel about a croissant and a coffee?”

“Can I have eggs and bacon? Maybe some toast?”

“Not here. You can have them tomorrow.”

Isaac made a face. “Okay, sure. Croissant and a coffee.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans, and produced a few American notes. He stared at them, dismay dawning on his face. “…Shit, these won’t work here, will they?”

“No,” Chris said, amused, “And I already told you, I’m paying. You hold onto your money.”

Isaac put his money away, frowning. “I have to contribute somehow.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“But-”

“Look, you can contribute later, once you’ve settled in, if you’re insisting on it. Alright?”

“…Alright.”

Chris closed the menus and stood, taking them over to the counter. He ordered, and ignored Eugène’s remark about how pretty the young man with him was. People could think what they wanted, and he’d expected someone would jump to that conclusion. It didn’t matter to him.

When he sat down again, Isaac was gazing around the café.

“Did you ever take her here?”

Chris swallowed, throat immediately closing up, because he knew who Isaac meant.

“…I did.” He folded his hands on the table, sat back. “She liked it here.”

Isaac nodded, looked down at his lap. Chris wanted to say something, anything, to make him feel better, but he didn’t know what he could say.

“It doesn’t seem fair, does it? That she’s dead, and I’m here? I’m just some kid. I don’t have any family.” Isaac continued to look down, chewing on his lip, ticking at the edge of the tablecloth. “No one would miss me.”

Chris clenched his jaw. “She would’ve.”

Isaac shook his head. “Yeah, sure.”

“…What does that mean?”

“She still loved Scott. We all knew. Those two were goddamn inseparable. When she was dying, she said-” Isaac cut himself off, and shook his head sharply, curly hair bouncing. “I’m- I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll stop. You shouldn’t… You don’t want to hear this. You’re her dad.”

He was right. Chris didn’t want to hear whatever he had been about to say.

Eugène appeared, right on time, placing two coffees down, accompanied by a plate of four croissants.

“Profitez, Christopher,” he said, “c’est bon de vous revoir.”

“C’est bon de vous voir, Eugene. Merci.” Chris said.

Isaac peeked up, biting his bottom lip, fear in his eyes.

“It’s okay, Isaac,” Chris sighed, reaching over and breaking a croissant in half. “You can talk about her. It’d be unhealthy not to.”

Isaac nodded hesitantly, clearly sensing the reluctance in Chris’ voice- Chris didn’t want to talk about his daughter. It was for both their benefit that he felt that they should- but he didn’t want to feel the pain her name brought.

“…I’m really gonna have to learn some French, aren’t I?” Isaac mused quietly. He frowned, jerked out of his worry, wrinkling his nose when Chris dunked half the croissant into his coffee. “…Did you really just do that?”

Chris looked up. “Do what?”

“That’s disgusting.”

“No, it isn’t.” Chris bit into the croissant. “It’s delicious.”

“It’s all soggy. Gross.”

“Try it.”

Isaac shuddered in revulsion, but took the remaining half croissant anyway, lips curling into a grimace as he dipped it into the coffee. He nibbled on it tentatively.

“Oh, come on, Isaac,” Chris laughed through his mouthful of croissant, “just eat it.”

Isaac regarded him with annoyance, before putting the whole thing in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and looked reluctantly surprised.

“…Huh.”

“Told you.”

Isaac tore another croissant in half, and the enthusiasm with which he did it made Chris laugh again.

 

Isaac ate the remaining three croissants on the plate with ravenous hunger, and Chris ordered more, along with some cold sliced ham and cheese. Eugène seemed amused by Isaac, but happy to see someone enjoying his food so much.

“Eh, boy,” he said, at one point, clapping a hand onto Isaac’s shoulder, “you like the food, eh?”

Isaac nodded, and Chris didn’t miss the way his shoulders rose, hunching to show his discomfort until Eugène laughed loudly and walked away. Men were, clearly, people Isaac had learned to fear.

Chris felt both relieved and complimented that Isaac didn’t react to him that way. Especially given the animosity between them in the past.

“Can we go to the Eiffel Tower? And the Arc… Arc de Tri…?” Isaac stumbled over the name, the accent and words unfamiliar to him.

“Arc de Triomphe.”

“Yeah.” Isaac nodded enthusiastically. “Can we go there?”

“Not today.”

Immediately, Isaac’s expression fell. “Why not?”

“It’s better to go there early in the morning, when there’s no one around. We can go have a quick look, but I guarantee you, it’ll be absolutely wall-to-wall with tourists now.”

Isaac pouted, but sighed and said, “Yeah, okay.”

“I was thinking I could get you some new clothes today.”

“…That’s…” Isaac sat back in his chair, thumbed the handle of his second cup of coffee, “…I should pay for that.”

Chris sighed. This again. “If you really want, we can find a place to convert your money. But you’ll loose some of it.”

“How much?”

“Well,” Chris thought it over, “if you’ve got five hundred US, you’ll end up with maybe… four hundred and fifty Euro. Maybe less. Could stretch to four hundred and forty, or thirty.”

Isaac gawked. _“What?_ I worked for that money! _”_

“Welcome to international travel.”

“…Jesus. Okay. Um,” Isaac shifted in his seat, “I guess you could buy me some clothes.”

Chris smiled. “Good.”

“But nothing expensive though.”

“Sure,” Chris said, making no promises, “Shall we go?”


	4. Chapter 4

Hunters, in France, dwelled in the wealthier parts. They were an elite lot- the Lunar Treaty, which had ensured a century of peace between Hunters and Werewolves thus far, meant that not much actual hunting went on anymore. Chris was part of an older breed; a Hunter with blood on his hands, gun oil in his skin, violence one second away from every movement.

Here was an arrangement unique to France; Wolves and Hunters dined together with polished crockery, in great halls and quaint cafés. They met, in their hundreds, for the annual Lunar Ball, dressed in tuxedoes and gowns. It was customary for Wolves to partner with Hunters, for at least the first dance, as a display of peace.

New Wolves were created only after permission from the Hunter’s Guild, and if one was created by accident, or in the heat of the moment, their progress was closely followed and scrutinised. There were no random attacks. No incidents of violence. Wolves who were born were well taken care of by the Hunters. Old money funded new peace.

The Argents had always attended the Hunter’s Guild meetings, because that was tradition, but had never danced at the Lunar Ball. Their family had originated in France, ended up in America, and stayed traditional while the French learned that violence was not the answer. It was a bitter thought to have, one that haunted Chris- if they’d only listened to the French, become part of the Lunar Treaty, given up their violent ways, maybe Allison would still be alive. Maybe Victoria would, too.

 _We help those who cannot help themselves._ Allison would’ve flourished here. They’d have adored her. She’d have been the head of the Argent family, head held high, a True Alpha on her arm. The most perfect symbol of peace, a message to all who would heed it- that the war was over.

If only.

 

***

 

Chris, in the past, had avoided the wealthier parts of Paris, had found shops and restaurants hidden in alleyways and around corners, places that had been owned down the generations, but never gained success enough to warrant the fame that Parisian tourist culture brought. He had done this because the Argents had not been friendly with Wolves, in the way that the French Hunters were. But now, he did it to avoid Hunters, for his own sake; he would have to tell the Guild that Allison had died, and there would be great concern, that the only Argent heir was dead. He’d have to explain, in detail, how she’d died.

He wasn’t ready for that yet.

Another consideration was avoiding Wolves for Isaac’s sake. His scent would follow him everywhere he went, and Chris didn’t doubt they’d probably meet at least one Wolf, but he wanted to decrease the chance of that happening.

Because he doubted Isaac was ready either.

They went to a small clothes store. It wasn’t much to look at, from the outside; it had a dark exterior, and may have been mistaken for an empty shop, were it not for the small gold plaque on the wooden door; _Elite Fashion, for Men and Women._ Chris wasn’t even sure it had an official name.

When they walked in, Isaac balked at the mannequins displaying rows of men’s suits.

“I said ‘nothing expensive’!”

“You’ll need a suit to meet with the Hunter’s Guild and the head Wolf. Besides,” Chris gestured to the woman who was emerging from the back of the shop, “Ms Affré sells clothes other than suits.”

“Christopher,” Ms Affré said, stepping forward and kissing him twice, “you have been gone so long. Seeing you again is a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine, madam.” He kissed the back of her hand, ignoring the way Isaac stared. Ms Affré truly was an artist; he’d seen her transform boys into men, girls into women, and even boys into women, girls into men. She could do anything she could imagine. She was sixty-five, with grey hair piled elegantly on top of her head, in a flowing emerald dress. Everything about her spoke of confidence, and of beauty.

“And who,” she said, smiling with her intelligent, analytical eyes, “is this?”

“Isaac Lahey,” Isaac held out his hand, hesitated, and then said, “ma’am.”

She laughed, and shook his hand. “Another American, unaccustomed to French manners. You will have to teach him, Christopher.”

Chris smiled, because what she said wasn’t an insult as much as it was a statement of fact. He would have to teach Isaac a thing or two.

“And what, young Mr Lahey, may I do for you today?”

“He needs a suit, Ms Affré. And perhaps some casual clothes.”

“Hm,” she regarded Isaac, from head to toe, “I will have my girl take your measurements, young man. Then you may browse my showroom. How do you feel about that?”

Isaac looked helplessly at Chris, and then back at Ms Affré. “…Um, Good. I suppose. Thank you. Ma’am.”

She laughed, and turned, gesturing for him to follow, “Call me Ms Affré. You’re making me feel old. And you, Christopher, may go on to the showroom.”

Isaac glanced over his shoulder at Chris, looking both surprised and worried, and Chris offered a grin of encouragement. Isaac made a face, bravado to cover what Chris knew was genuine nervousness; he’d never have been to a place this wealthy before.

 

Behind the shop’s dim and small front was a large space, bright and well-lit; the showroom was a long room, brightly lit with diamond chandeliers, with a metal rack stretching along each wall. On one side, men’s clothing. On the other, women’s clothing. At the end of the room were changing cubicles.

Chris turned his back to the women’s clothes, trying not to think of Allison and what he brought for her last time he was here.

The clothes on the men’s rack were suited to the Autumn weather outside, which would soon begin to turn cold. There were the standard charcoal grey, black, and storm grey suits, muted greens and blues, pinstripes and plaid. But what he saw, mostly, was ironed denim, knitted jumpers, woollen overcoats, striped scarves, and a selection of hats; mostly in earthy, Autumn-appropriate colours.

He pulled a thickly knitted navy blue jumper from the rack, found a pair of coffee-coloured pants, and imagined how they’d suit Isaac.

“May I help you, sir?”

He turned, smiled at the young girl who’d appeared behind him. She was thin, pale, blonde and ethereal. Ms Affré only ever seemed to employ beautiful young women. He wasn’t under any illusions about why she really kept them around; she didn’t need any help to run this store. They were there to fill her small world with youthful attraction.

“Just picking a few things out for the young man I came in with.”

“I saw him, sir. If I may make some suggestions?”

He nodded. “Please.”

 

Isaac emerged from having his measurements taken, Ms Affré smiling victoriously as she walked ahead of him.

“All done, Christopher. I already supplied him with an outfit, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” Money had never been an issue for him; Ms Affré was well aware of it.

Isaac was wearing a dark grey jumper and ironed, fitted jeans, a scarf striped with shades of grey, plain black Oxfords. As bland as the outfit sounded, it was exquisitely made, and its anonymity perfectly complimented Isaac’s complex array of curls, and his sharp face. Chris smiled, the way he had smiled when Allison had worn a new dress or done her hair differently.

“You look wonderful, Isaac.”

The compliment was an echo of his words to Allison, spoken so many times they’d become natural to his ears- he hadn’t paused to consider his audience. Thankfully, Isaac seemed to take it in stride; he looked down at the floor, bashful, and then looked up with a wide grin.

“I think these clothes are worth more than I am.”

The comment struck Chris hard, and the smile fell from his face. “Don’t say that.”

Ms Affré, having watched the exchange with an intelligent sparkle in her eye, said, “The worth of a person is not measured in currency, young man. I’ve lived long enough to know that for certain.” She turned to Chris, said, “Will you be needing anything else today, Christopher? I trust one of my girls has helped you make a selection,” Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel, beaconing for them to follow, “Come, I’ll put the sale through for you.”

Her abruptness was the result of years of familiarity; Chris had been coming here for many years, and he had never stuck around to chat after purchasing what he needed.

As she got the receipt together behind the counter, the slender blonde girl helping her, Chris and Isaac stood waiting.

“These clothes,” Isaac said, in a very small voice, “feel very expensive.”

“I told you before, Isaac- I’m the adult. I’m looking after you.”

“Because she told you to?”

Chris looked at him, but Isaac stared straight ahead.

“…No. Because you deserve to be looked after. You deserve to be nurtured. And it doesn’t take an idiot to see no one’s ever cherished you.”

Isaac did look up, then, shocked. Once again, Chris was sure he’d overstepped the undefined boundary between them, but there wasn’t any repelled shock in Isaac’s expression. Instead, his eyes were searching, looking for spite, looking for anger, looking for sarcasm. Looking for something to explain the kindness he was being offered- because he didn’t understand it.

Chris smiled. Isaac blinked, and Chris could see the realisation dawning on his face.

“You,” Isaac breathed, stunned, “You actually give a shit about me.”

Chris reached up, gripped his shoulder briefly, smiling wider. “I didn’t think I needed to actually say it.”

“Gentlemen, your transaction is ready.”

Chris let go of Isaac, went to the counter. He produced his card, handed it to Ms Affré as he took the suit hanger bag from the blonde girl. He draped it over his arm, entered his PIN number into the machine, and withdrew the card when the transaction was finished.

“Your old outfit is in there, too, young man.” Ms Affré said, with a smile that said she’d have burned those clothes herself if she’d had the option. “Thank you, again, for your visit Christopher. It’s always lovely to see a valued customer.”

He smiled, and they kissed twice, cheek to cheek. “Have a wonderful afternoon, Ms Affré.”

“And you, Christopher.”

 

***

 

They went back to the apartment, and Chris was beginning to feel the effects of jetlag. He checked his watch; it was nearing lunchtime.

While Isaac looked through his new clothes, he went to a nearby grocery store, and bought a selection of essentials. He didn’t know what Isaac liked to eat, so he’d start with pasta- that seemed a relatively safe bet. As he picked up a bunch of bananas, he considered Isaac’s reaction to the croissant this morning; maybe he had some things to learn about European food.

He walked back to the apartment, bags of shopping hanging from his fingers, and let himself in.

When he walked into the apartment, Isaac burst from his bedroom, having shed the grey jumper, revealing a fitted black shirt.

“Those clothes are amazing,” He fidgeted, shifting his weight onto his left leg, scratching at his neck, swallowing thickly, “I, uh. Don’t really want to know how much you paid for them, because I’m pretty sure I couldn’t earn that in a year. But. Thank you. They’re… I’ve never owned clothes like that before.”

Chris smiled, took the shopping to the kitchen. Isaac followed. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like them.”

“I _love_ them.” Isaac hovered as Chris put the shopping onto the bench. “Can I. Can I tell you something?”

“…Sure.” He looked over, frowned at the way Isaac was looking nervously down at his hands. “Isaac, what is it?”

“…Well,” Isaac took a breath, “I always liked fashion. But dad… He thought men were men, and women were women, y’know? I always wanted to wear… scarves, and coats, and pretty clothes- you know, nice things, but dad… He called me a f… Anyway. Anyway, he never let me wear nice things, so. Thank you.” Isaac looked up, earnest, and Chris could’ve sworn his heart broke from looking into those desperate blue eyes. “I mean it.”

Chris looked down at the shopping, thinking of what to say. Really, he just wanted to hug Isaac. He got the feeling Isaac would appreciate a hug. But he just wasn’t sure, didn’t know exactly how to interact with this young man.

“Anything you want,” he said, pulling groceries out of bags, “All you need to do is ask.”

“I’ll work for it. Whatever you want. I’ll keep this place cleaner than you could ever imagine. I’ll- I’ll… I don’t know. Whatever. Just,” Isaac laughed nervously, “whatever you want me to do. Jesus. Thank you.”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, his arms were around Chris, a mop of curly hair against his head, a face pressed against his neck.

Chris laughed, turned, hugged him back.

“You’re like the dad I never had,” Isaac whispered.

Chris patted his back, leaned into him, only just resisted closing his eyes and holding him tighter- he could’ve stayed like this forever. Isaac was warm, solid, his chest firm and young, and Chris was so _tired._

He leaned back, instead, “How about you help me get this shopping out, huh?”

Isaac grinned. “Sure.”

 

They packed the shopping away, and cleaned the apartment, sweeping the dust away and making the beds. Isaac made his bed perfectly, rigid with crisp corners- Chris was impressed, until Isaac admitted that his dad had beaten him whenever he left his room in a mess.

The balcony was accessible through a door at the end of the kitchen. Isaac stood out there, staring at the Eiffel Tower, as Chris made calls inside. He figured they would probably collapse into sleep before dinner, so he was making a large lunch; pasta was cooking in the microwave, a pesto sauce cooking on the stove. Chris stirred it slowly, phone held at his ear.

First, he called Jaquez Bruguière, a member of the Hunter’s Guild- the central governing group of Hunters that maintained the Lunar Treaty, with representatives from Hunting families. Not only was Jaquez extremely senior in the Guild, he had also been the most consistently patient and tolerant of the Argent family’s stubborn refusal to change their traditional practices and views. The recent change in the family’s views had meant the Guild welcomed them more freely, but they were still hesitant. Jaquez would be more amiable.

And he had no aversion to speaking English with someone whose first language was English, even if they spoke French. Which, given Chris’ dwindling concentration and rapidly increasing tiredness, was a definite plus.

_“Oui?”_

“Hey, Jaquez. It’s Chris Argent.”

_“Christopher! What a surprise!”_

“Sorry I didn’t call ahead. I’m in Paris.”

There was a pause. _“Ordinarily, you don’t come unless there’s a Guild meeting. You recently said you’d come to interact freely with the Guild in your own time, but I’m guessing from the tone of your voice you aren’t here to mingle. What’s happened?”_

Chris took a breath. “There was Nogitsune in Beacon Hills.”

_“Good god. That’s an old legend.”_

“It killed Allison.”

Another pause. Longer, this time. _“I’m very, very sorry, Christopher.”_

Chris nodded. The sorrow in his voice was genuine; no one knew loss like the Hunters. Even ones who lived in peace. Blood was the price of being born into such families.

“Thank you, Jaquez.”

_“What can I do to help you? Anything at all. I am at your service.”_

“I’d like to meet with you.”

_“To discuss your daughter’s death?”_

“…Perhaps you better set up two meetings, then.” He didn’t want to have that conversation in front of Isaac.

_“Very well. And the second meeting?”_

“I didn’t come here alone.”

_“Who else came with you?”_

“A young man named Isaac. He was in a relationship with Allison when she died.”

_“A Hunter? What family does he come from?”_

“No,” Chris took a breath, “just the opposite, in fact.”

 _“…You mean…”_ Jaquez’s voice became astounded. _“You mean a Wolf?”_

“An Omega.”

_“…Your daughter.”_

“Yes.”

_“And now… He’s living with you?”_

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

 _“No! No, I’m…”_ Jaquez laughed, clearly dumbfounded, _“I’m shocked, Christopher, that’s all. I knew your family had toned down your traditional views, but I never imagined you’d… I could never have_ begun _to think…”_

Chris smiled, half bitterness, half sadness. He’d never have imagined it either.

“You’ve always ensured a peaceful coexistence between Wolves and Hunters, Jaquez. That’s why I’ve brought Isaac here. I want him to feel safe.”

There was a small hum. _“Very well. If you trust him, I’m already convinced- though I will have to meet with him, of course.”_

“Of course. I’ll take him to meet LeCárre too.”

 _“Well, yes. Meeting the strongest Alpha in Paris would probably be a good idea.”_ Jaquez chuckled to himself.

“I really want to emphasise this, Jaquez. He’s a good young man. He’s been through a great deal- I don’t want him to meet with any hostility while in France.”

There was a silence, then, long enough that Chris begun to think Jaquez had hung up, or the line was disconnected.

 _“You’ve changed, Christopher.”_ He said it quietly, with wonder. An impossibility had occurred.

“I know.”

_“…And this boy’s Alpha? What does he think of this move to France?”_

“He’s also grieving Allison. I don’t think he had the capacity to care for Isaac while mourning her.”

Jaquez snorted. _“Some Alpha.”_

“Well,” Chris sighed, tempted to agree, “he’s just a boy too, I suppose. Listen, I’d like to meet with you tomorrow, if I could. Get all of the… details out. While it’s still…” _fresh. Hurting._

_“Of course.”_

“I’m not sure when Isaac will be ready to meet with you, though. I don’t want to push him.”

_“For you, Christopher, I am free always. Text me a time and a place; I’ll meet you wherever you wish.”_

“Thank you, Jaquez.”

_“See you soon, Christopher. And know that you have my sincerest grief for your loss.”_

Chris felt his throat tighten. _If only you’d met her,_ he wanted to say, _you’d have fallen in love._

“…See you tomorrow.”

He hung up, leaned on the bench, took a breath. He closed his eyes tight and rubbed a hand over his face, breathing into his palm.

_If only you’d met her._

Breathe. Breathe.

The tears were coming, along with a blinding, burning, searing anger. He thought of all the things they’d done wrong, all the mistakes they’d made as a family, paving the way for a path straight to her death. His hands tightened into fists, knuckles against his mouth, and he wanted to break bones.

“…Mr Argent…?”

He started, gripping the edge of the bench. He’d forgotten Isaac was there. He wondered how much of the conversation Isaac had overheard.

“I’m alright,” he said, voice strained, and he knew Isaac could hear the racing of his heart, the thumping against his ribcage, the pulse jumping against his skin, “I’m alright. Just give me a moment.”

Isaac approached, cautiously, and Chris knew what he was thinking; he was thinking of his father. Of what he’d done when he’d gotten angry.

“Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to leave? Do you want…”

“Just. Just,” Chris took a breath, eyes still closed, and he wanted a drink. He wanted to drown himself. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream. But he took a breath, and another, and forced himself to open his eyes, stare into the simmering pesto sauce. His heart was still hammering, but he was calming down. He was calming down, and he hated it.

 _Kill me,_ he thought. _Destroy me, so I can finally cry._

“I’m fine.” He straightened up, took the spoon in hand again, picked up his phone, dialled LeCárre. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Isaac was silent, for a long time.

“You keep saying that I need to let someone take care of me.” He said, finally, quietly. “But what about you?”

Chris clenched his teeth. “What about me?”

“Who takes care of you?”

Chris felt a pathetic, sad swell of anger. “I can take care of myself.”

Isaac stood there for a little longer.

“...Okay.”

He went back into his room. Chris stared unseeingly at LeCárre’s number, displayed on the phone screen.

He wanted Isaac to take care of him. It was wrong, he knew, for an adult to want the affection of a teenage boy, the comfort of someone so vastly younger and more vulnerable. He wanted to be able to fall to pieces, sob in Isaac’s embrace, hold him close. Like a father. Like a son. Like someone he could trust.

He swallowed, banished the images from his mind, and called LeCárre.


	5. Chapter 5

His conversation with LeCárre was far shorter, and far more succinct. It was also entirely in French- which, while being a drain on his quickly diminishing faculties, was a relief. He didn’t want Isaac listening in again.

She agreed to meet with them, and they organised a time for a few days later, in an exclusive restaurant. Where Jaquez was laid back, LeCárre was rigid with propriety and manners. It was a result of her upbringing, into one of the wealthiest families in France, and a result of her power. Being the strongest and most influential Alpha in France, and possibly in Europe, meant she was a pillar of strength to the rest of the supernatural world. She was an example, to every Wolf, to every Hunter.

And she was a fully realised True Alpha. Scott McCall had nothing on this woman.

She expressed her sympathy, just as genuine as Jaquez had been, and Chris thanked her in a monotone voice. She must’ve sensed he was done with the conversation, because she bade him a good day and hung up.

“Isaac.” He called out, draining the pasta in the sink. “Lunch’ll be ready soon.”

Isaac emerged from his room slowly, and came around to stand in the kitchen doorway. He stayed there, hiding half his body, peeking around the corner like a child, and Chris realised he was afraid.

“It’s okay. I’m fine.” He smiled, and it didn’t feel genuine. “I’m not going to hit you, if I get angry.”

Isaac stayed where he was, and chewed his lip. “Maybe you should.”

Chris froze. “…What?”

“It’s not healthy. Holding it all in. If you want to let it out, I can take it.”

The world spun, and Chris put down the pasta, held onto the bench, took a breath. He wanted to be sick.

“No, Isaac.”

“I can take it.” Isaac said, eagerly, stepping forward into the kitchen. “I heal fast, remember? You wouldn’t even leave bruises. I mean, if I’m staying here, and you’re buying me all this stuff, I have to do something to earn it, right? I can help you grieve. You’ll feel better if you take it out on someone.”

Chris looked up, and he couldn’t keep the horror from his face. He looked at Isaac, at this young, innocent boy, and he felt like he might vomit. This was wrong. This was so, so wrong, and the words that he’d just heard made him appalled in ways he’d never been before.

“Isaac,” he said, voice shaking, “I’m not a monster.”

“I know-”

“No, you,” he shook his head, throat tight, and when he swallowed he could taste bile, “You can’t say things like that. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Well, I do-”

“You can’t be alright with someone beating you for their own _peace of mind.”_

Isaac stared back at him, and was fully serious when he said, “Why not? I’ll heal.”

Chris felt a swell of helplessness. He didn’t know how to make Isaac understand how colossally _wrong_ it was for him to say such things. He didn’t know how to shake a lifetime of victimhood and cruelty, change a point of view built on foundations of abuse.

Chris stared back into his eyes, stepped out from behind the counter. Isaac regarded him with wariness and fear.

“No one has the right to hurt you.” He looked up at Isaac, tried to make him understand, tried with every fibre of his being to tell him that this was _wrong._ “No one.”

Isaac looked down at his feet, swallowed. Chris reached up, slid a hand onto his neck, and Isaac flinched.

“Look at me.”

Isaac did.

“What you just said to me, I want you to promise me you’ll never say it to anyone else. Never offer yourself up as a… a _punching bag._ Alright?”

“But why not?”

 Chris gripped the back of his neck, looked into his blue eyes. “Because you’re a good boy, Isaac. You’ve been through too much already. You didn’t deserve what you got, and you don’t deserve more of it.”

Isaac looked down again, crossed his arms, hunched.

“Promise me. Promise me you’ll never say anything like that again.”

“…I promise.”

Chris nodded. “And you know what I promise?”

“What?”

“I promise that I’ll protect you. I’m not like your father. While you’re here, you’re under my care, and I will _never_ lay a hand on you. Do you understand me? Never.”

Isaac nodded, and Chris could see he was beginning to cry. “Okay.”

Chris stretched upwards, craned his neck, and pulled Isaac down. He kissed him on the forehead, just like he’d kissed Allison, just like he’d held his daughter.

Isaac sniffed, and his breath jumped on a small sob.

Chris pulled him into a hug, and Isaac cried.

 

Isaac ate his pasta sullenly, and Chris knew he was embarrassed to have cried so openly, again. His pride was taking a hit.

“I’ve arranged for us to meet with a True Alpha named LeCárre, in a few days.”

“I don’t want to join a pack.”

Chris nodded, speared some pasta on his fork. “You don’t have to, but it’d be good for you to meet with her anyway. Make yourself known.”

Isaac nodded, glum. “And the other phone call? With the Hunter?”

Chris raised his eyebrows dryly. “You mean you didn’t hear all of it?”

Isaac had the decency to look ashamed. “…Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Though I’d prefer you didn’t do that in the future.”

“It’s kinda hard not to listen.”

“Well,” Chris sighed, “try.”

“When am I meeting with this Hunter guy?”

“Jaquez. And, I don’t know. Whenever you’re ready.”

Isaac frowned. “I’m ready. Why wouldn’t I be ready?”

“You’re… You’re grieving, Isaac. We both are. You don’t have to rush anything.”

“Better to do it sooner than later, right?”

Chris felt exasperated. “It’s alright to admit you want to take it easy, Isaac.”

Isaac shrugged, poked at the pasta in his plate. He’d nearly finished his portion; Chris was only halfway through. He hadn’t really paused to consider the results of a teenage boy’s appetite combined with a Werewolf’s metabolism.

“I don’t mind.”

“…Alright.” Chris decided to bite the bullet. “I’ll set up a meeting for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Okay,” Isaac said, the word becoming a jumbled noise when he yawned widely. Chris smiled fondly.

“The jetlag’s hitting you, huh?”

Isaac rubbed his eyes, sleepy, scratched at his curls. “Mm.”

“I think you should try to stay awake for a few more hours.”

Isaac picked up his fork and drowsily glared. He was beginning to get grey shadows under his eyes. It made Chris think of Isaac with a black eye, his youthful energy drained from him and replaced with fear. He shook himself, forced the thought away.

“Why?”

“Because you need to try and force yourself into this time zone.” Chris had a mouthful of pasta, chewed, swallowed. “But, you can go to sleep if you really want to.”

Looking relieved, and very tired, Isaac nodded. “’Kay.”

 

***

 

Isaac went into his bedroom, and fell fast asleep. Chris showered, stared into the mirror, and found his head utterly empty. The jetlag was overpowering him. His skin was pale, and his face was old. He looked into his own eyes, and thought of nothing. There was nothing in him.

He went to bed, and did not dream.


	6. Chapter 6

When he woke up, he didn’t know where he was.

Once the panic faded, he remembered he was in France, he remembered the boy in the room next to his, and he remembered Allison.

The pain came, then. He let the tears come, fill his eyes, blur his vision, and he stared at the ceiling, trying to breathe. The need filled him; sob, cry, scream, break down. He trembled, and a tear slowly made its way down his cheek, but he took a long, shaking breath, and felt the pain fade, until it was a dull throb, a constant agony that he would bear for every second of every day. But he would not give in to it.

He was too afraid.

He sat up, and felt the creaking of old bones. He was only forty-five, and he felt ancient. The world heaved down on him, sitting heavy on his skin, pushing him back down onto the bed, telling him, _stay there, stay there all day. Never get up again. Die on your back._

But he got up.

He went into the kitchen, moving on slow legs, and turned the kettle on. He got out a mug, and only then did he realise there wasn’t any instant coffee in the apartment. He sighed, both annoyed and tired, and rubbed his face. He’d have to go get some. He needed coffee.

He went out onto the balcony, sat down. He hadn’t looked at the time, but he guessed it was about five AM. The sky was dark, heavy with flat colour in the way that city skies were. The apartments nearby were still, occupants still sleeping. One window was alight, and Chris’ eyes fixed on it, on the man rushing around, getting ready for something. The orange rectangle of light shone brightly in the dark Paris morning.

He watched the man until he left his apartment, and the light went out. He continued to stare at the window as the sun slowly crept into view, the morning growing lighter and lighter. Other people began to wake. Hours passed. Chris did not move.

There was a quiet noise behind him; the door out onto the balcony opening.

“Mr Argent…?”

“You should call me Chris,” he muttered in reply, not focussing on Isaac, gazing out unseeingly.

“…Okay. Chris. Are you alright? You’ve kinda been out here for a while.”

_No. I’m not alright._

Chris looked over his shoulder at Isaac. He was wearing plain black underwear, and nothing else.

“We’ll have to get you some pyjamas,” Chris muttered, more to him himself than anything else, standing slowly and stretching his arms out in front of him, “and some socks, and underwear…. How much did you bring with you?”

“About a week’s worth of clothes.” Isaac said, leaning his bare shoulder against the doorway. “After dad died, I took my stuff to Derek’s, but… dad bought me all of it, so I guess… I didn’t like wearing it. Reminded me of him. I sort of threw some of it out.”

“Some of it?”

“Most of it,” Isaac admitted.

Chris nodded. “Aren’t you _cold?”_

Isaac looked down at himself, and shrugged. “No. Maybe it’s a Wolf thing?”

“Probably. Yeah, it is, actually,” Chris sighed, rubbed his face. “I need coffee.”

“I could go for a coffee.” Isaac said hopefully.

“Put some clothes on first.”

Isaac grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Chris dropped his hands and stared glumly at him. “I’m too tired for sass, Isaac.”

With a delighted laugh, one that didn’t sound nearly as jetlagged as it should, Isaac turned and went to go get dressed.

 

***

 

They went to Joe’s Diner this time, an American tourist café with exaggeratedly American food. Chris, ordinarily, wouldn’t have eaten there, but he figured Isaac would appreciate the familiarity.

“God, yes,” Isaac said excitedly when a plate of eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast and roasted tomatoes was put in front of him, “This is _awesome._ ”

Chris, cupping a mug of steaming black coffee, stared at the food with vague interest. He wasn’t all that hungry. Maybe he’d order a few pieces of toast just to sate himself until lunch.

Isaac had dressed in his new clothes; the same shoes as yesterday, paired with blue jeans and a fitted black jacket, over a buttoned navy shirt. He ate hungrily, shovelling food into his mouth. Chris watched him with a mix of amusement and envy; Isaac, whether it was because of his youth or his supernatural abilities, seemed to have gotten over the jetlag like it was nothing.

“You aren’t eating?” Isaac asked, through a mouthful of toast.

“Maybe,” Chris sighed, “I’ll think about it.”

“You should eat. Really. If you’re paying for this, and you don’t even have your own meal, I’ll feel so bad.” Isaac took a pull of coffee. “You want some eggs?”

Chris shook his head and called a waiter over. He ordered some banana bread, and another coffee.

“Aren’t we meeting that guy today? The Hunter? Jack-something?”

“Jaquez. And yeah, this afternoon.”

“Can we go to the Eiffel Tower today?” Isaac asked excitedly, grinning across the table. “Or the other place?”

“The Arc de Triomphe.” Chris put his head in his hands, and made a low noise of frustration. “I’m dead, Isaac. I feel like I could sleep for a month.”

“Well, that’s okay, I can go by myself.”

Chris knew that was a logical statement. Isaac _could_ go by himself.

But he remembered his arms around Isaac, the way Isaac had trembled and cried, the damp marks his tears had made on Chris’ neck. And he knew he did not want to leave Isaac alone in the world. Not yet, anyway. No matter how well he wore his new clothes, no matter how beautiful and strong and untouchable he looked, he was still just a boy.

“I want to go with you.”

Isaac, honest to god, _pouted._ “So we’re not going today?”

“Tomorrow. I swear, on pain of death, Isaac,” Chris sighed, sitting back as a waitress put the banana bread in front of him, “that we will go to the Eiffel Tower and the The Arc de Triomphe tomorrow.”

Isaac shrugged, and resumed eating. Chris picked up his knife and started buttering the bread.

“What’re we doing today, then? Aside from meeting,” Isaac paused, “, Jaquez?”

Chris grinned, “Hey, you said his name right.”

Isaac blushed, smiling. “Shut up.”

“I’m going to get some more food for the apartment, and some instant coffee. And we’re going to go out to lunch, so you can start to get used to French food.”

Isaac made a face. “Do we have to?”

“You’re living in _France,_ Isaac- so _yes_ , you have to get used to French food. You’ll have to learn some French as well. At least the basics.”

With enough dramatic petulance to rival a five-year old’s, Isaac tipped his head back and groaned at the ceiling. Chris smiled at him, because he was alright with this. He was perfectly happy for Isaac to act silly and sulky and _normal,_ because that was a far cry from the alternative.

“And we’ll have to get you some more clothes.”

Isaac pointed his fork threateningly. “But nothing as expensive as last time.”

Chris raised his hands in mock surrender. “We can even go to places with brand tags and discount racks, if you want.”

Isaac lowered his fork, and nodded in satisfaction. “Good.”

 

***

 

They did indeed go to places with brand tags and discount racks. Isaac chose the cheapest things he could, and when he turned his back Chris chose more expensive clothes and bought them too. It was the basics; underwear, socks, shirts, jumpers, pyjamas. Chris, as he was handing over his card, paused to wonder how this would last; how long would Isaac stay with him? Would he take off as soon as he found a pack to live with? Would he get a girlfriend and move in with her? A _boyfriend?_ Chris didn’t even know if Isaac was into boys.

 _Really,_ he thought, _I don’t know much about him at all._


	7. Chapter 7

The restaurant wasn’t opulent or lavish by any stretch of the imagination, which was why Chris had picked it- he wanted Isaac to be comfortable, and he knew Jaquez would be alright with that. Not that Chris would’ve tended towards any kind of fine dining anyway. Not when he had a say in the matter.

Isaac, despite Chris’ choice of restaurant, did not relax. They walked in, and were taken to their seat, and Isaac was walking stiff and rigid.

Jaquez was not an imposing man; he was built solidly, his chest and forearms filling out his shirt, but he had a trustworthy expression and spoke calmly. Despite the sedentary, and largely inactive, nature of the Hunters in France, Jaquez was not weak-chinned. He had maintained his toughness- or, at least, an impression of it.

“ _Bonjour_ , Mr Lahey!” Jaquez stood, held out his hand.

Isaac hesitated, and Chris put a hand on the small of his back, urged him forward. Isaac took a step towards Jaquez, and held out his arm; he leaned, when he shook Jaquez’ hand, and it was plainly obvious he was keeping as much distance between them as possible.

“…Hello.” Isaac said, smiling unconvincingly.

Jaquez, thankfully, did not press the issue, and released his hand after shaking it briskly. “It’s quite alright, young man, I’m not a threat to you.”

Isaac nodded, unconvinced, and took the seat furthest from Jaquez, on the opposite side of the table. Chris, disquieted by Isaac’s unease, took the seat next to him, opposite Jaquez. This was not off to a good start. As far as he knew, Jaquez was agreeable, and wouldn’t be easily offended- but Isaac needed a home here. And insulting the Hunter’s Guild would not help the situation very much.

They ordered dinner. Isaac stared at the menu for several terrified seconds before Chris caught on and translated a few of the options for him. Jaquez observed them with an amused, but not belittling, smile, and made occasional suggestions. After they had ordered, their food arrived extremely quickly.

For most of the dinner, Jaquez made small talk, about the Hunters and Wolves in France; he was an entertaining man, so it wasn’t as boring as it perhaps could’ve been, and Chris found himself glad the interrogation of Isaac was being delayed, for at least a while.

As they all neared the end of their meals, Jaquez obviously decided to get down to business.

“So,” He said, putting down his glass, “Tell me about yourself, young Isaac.”

Isaac looked up from his plate- Chris glanced at him, and realised he should’ve told Jaquez some of it before- he should’ve cautioned him that the majority of Isaac’s life wasn’t pleasant, and certainly wasn’t something he willingly discussed.

“I, uh…” Isaac cleared his throat and looked down again, “There’s not much to tell. I grew up in Beacon Hills… Mom died when I was young…”

“I am very sorry to hear that.” Jaquez said.

Isaac shook his head. “That wasn’t the real tragedy of my life.”

Jaquez heard the pain in his voice, and didn’t respond; his eyes flickered to Chris, and Chris shook his head, minutely enough that he hoped Isaac didn’t notice.

“…And how did you become a Werewolf?”

“Derek Hale knew what was… happening to me. He… offered me a way out.”

Jaquez hesitated, again, and licked his lips slowly, unsure how to proceed.

 _Please,_ Chris thought, _please, don’t ask._

The silence stretched on, until Isaac took a long, shuddering breath, and reached up to rub his face- his hands shook, and he lowered them again, fidgeting, unsure, and ended up clenching his hands in his lap, drawing his nails across denim. He was beginning to panic.

“Isaac,” Chris began.

“I’m,” Isaac began, looking down, “I’m okay. Sorry. Sorry. I’m fine.”

Chris didn’t know what to do. He wanted to reach over, take Isaac’s hand, and comfort him. But he didn’t know what _Isaac_ wanted. They were in a public place, after all, with a stranger.

“Well,” Jaquez began slowly, “I was planning on having dessert, but you aren’t obliged to stay.”

Chris nodded. “Do you want to go home, Isaac?”

Isaac nodded, and his relief wasn’t subdued at all. “Yeah. I’m- I’m sorry, Mr Jaquez.”

Jaquez smiled and, thankfully, didn’t comment on Isaac’s misuse of his first name. Chris was suddenly extremely glad they hadn’t met with any other Hunter; Jaquez was kind, where many others would be judgemental.

Chris stood, as did Isaac. He found himself putting a hand on Isaac’s arm, holding his elbow, and was glad when Isaac didn’t push him away.

“Thank you, Jaquez,” he said, and Jaquez nodded amicably.

 

***

 

They went straight back to the apartment, and Isaac was silent the entire ride back; the lights of the city zoomed by, passing over his skin, and he stared straight ahead.

“Isaac, are you alright?”

There was no response. Chris tightened his fingers around the wheel and nodded to himself.

“Of course you’re not alright,” he said it quietly, because the space inside the car was loud with silence, and every word he spoke seemed like a shout, “We’ll be home soon. Don’t worry.”

Again, Isaac didn’t reply.

It was only when they arrived that Isaac properly started crying. He turned his back as Chris closed the door, hunching his shoulders, bringing a hand up to his mouth. Chris, his hand on the doorknob, felt a deep swell of nervousness, of worry.

“Isaac…?”

Isaac didn’t turn, so Chris walked around to face him, held his shoulder with one hand. Isaac’s eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth clenched together hard, cheeks already wet with tears. He reached up to hide his face with both hands.

“I’m sorry, I know I was supposed to- but then, he asked about home, and I- I couldn’t-”

Chris hugged him. Isaac cried, as Chris rubbed his back, palm flat over his shirt. He quietly promised things; “It’ll be okay, Isaac,”, “You’ll be alright”, and all the while, he was utterly unsure whether Isaac _would_ be alright. Isaac was shuddering, his body shaking with sobs, and there was no shadow of his strength there, no indication he was a Werewolf who could tear Chris apart limb from limb if he wanted- he was nothing more than a young man who had suffered tremendous abuse, and now a shattering loss. Chris’ own loss seemed eons away; he felt no need, in this moment, to do anything other than comfort Isaac.

“You’re safe, you’re safe,” he murmured, “You’re safe with me, Isaac.”

Isaac leaned back, eyes now swollen pink from crying, his blue irises bright with tears. His mouth was tightened into a sobbing grimace.

“How’re you doing this? How’re you so calm? How do you- She was your _daughter,_ how can you,”

“I’m used to pain.” Chris said, because it was the truth, and he didn’t see any point lying, even if he felt heartless and cruel and _wrong_ , being as collected as he was. “All that matters to me is getting you through this.”

Isaac stared at him, and Chris smiled back, trying to appear relaxed when he was anything but- then Isaac lurched forward, suddenly and unexpectedly, and kissed him.

Immediately, Chris pulled back, dropping his arms- he raised a hand to his mouth, on instinct, and couldn’t keep the confusion off his face.

“Oh, shit-” Isaac lifted a hand to his mouth too, eyes wide and terrified, and Chris knew it had just been panic, hysteria, a confused action done in the heat of the moment. It was relieving to realise; Chris couldn’t begin to think what dealing with _that_ complication would be like.

“Isaac, it’s alright. Don’t worry about it.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, shit,” Isaac backed away, stumbling backwards, pressing both hands into his face. The door jerked on its hinges when his back hit the wood. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, please don’t hit me-”

“Isaac, I’m not going to hit you-”

“Oh god,” Isaac slid down the door, landed hard on the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest, raising his arms up over his head, breaths loud and fast, “Oh god, what the fuck is wrong with me, what’s _wrong with me-_ ”

“It’s okay-”

“No, no! No, it’s not!”

“It is, Isaac, it _is_.” Chris knelt down, but did not touch Isaac, didn’t crowd him, didn’t make him feel any more trapped than he already did. “I know exactly how you’re feeling.”

“No,” Isaac’s voice was high-pitched, and his gasped words were making less and less sense every time he opened his mouth, his mouth muffled as he curled in on himself, “No, you don’t!”

“Isaac,”

“You don’t understand!”

“I _do._ ” Chris insisted quietly. “You’re a mess. You’re feeling everything at once. Anger. Sadness. Pain. Hopelessness. You’re moving so fast that you can’t possibly see a way out. You want to hide forever. You want to hurt yourself. You want to turn back time, fix everything… but you can’t.”

He swallowed thickly. His words had been split down the middle; half for him, half for Isaac. The tightness in his throat, the pulling in his stomach, it was for both him and the crying boy in front of him.

What he’d said had obviously reached Isaac, because he didn’t yell again. He curled in tighter, fingers in his hair, pulling, clenching, still breathing too fast.

“So, how do I…” Isaac swallowed loudly, chest rising and falling like a piston. “H- how do I deal with this? How do I… How do _you_ deal with this?”

Chris couldn’t answer that. “Everyone has different ways of grieving. I’ll be here for you. Whatever you need. Alright?”

“How do you… How do you grieve?”

Chris smiled brokenly. “Badly.”

Isaac sniffed quietly.

“How about, Isaac,” Chris lifted a hand, put it gently on Isaac’s knee, “, I go and get a bath running for you? Nice and warm. Would you like that?”

“…Y- yeah.”

“Okay.” Chris stood. “I’ll come and get you when it’s ready.”

 

He left Isaac sitting by the door, to give him some time to calm down, and started the bath running. He was very aware that he didn’t want to crowd Isaac, but at the same time he wasn’t sure where Isaac drew the boundary; how much affection was too much? Isaac hadn’t driven a wedge between them, hadn’t tried to distance himself, and that was a good thing- Chris didn’t want to risk ruining the balance they’d found. It was a precarious situation. If Chris got it wrong, Isaac might panic and run.

And there’d be no way of getting him back if he didn’t _want_ to come back.

He filled the bath, retrieved shampoo and soap and conditioner from the cabinet where they’d been put earlier that day, still with price labels on. When he turned around, after dipping his hand in to test the temperature of the water, Isaac was standing in the doorway, staring down at the floor.

“Alright, it’s ready.”

Isaac nodded, and didn’t look up.

Chris said, at a loss, “…Do you need anything else?”

“No, just… Thank you. Thank you.”

Chris smiled, but the expression was fleeting, and he didn’t know how to mask the worry he felt. “Like I said. Anything you need.”

 

Chris went to his room, pulled off his clothes, and changed into the threadbare shirt and shorts he used as pyjamas. The shirt had the _Star Wars_ logo on it; an age ago, he’d been a fan. When things were simpler. When he and his wife had hunted during the night, and raised their daughter during the day.

From Beacon Hills, he’d brought with him three paperback books. The author was a Greek-American whose morally ambiguous crime novels Chris enjoyed; the author wrote a lot about race and inequality, which were real-life problems and social dilemmas that Chris enjoyed immersing himself in.

As if his life could ever be that simple.

He had worked through a good few chapters before he smelled soap, and looked up to find Isaac standing in his doorway, dressed in the dark blue pyjamas Chris had bought today, still damp from his bath. His expression was empty, eyes glazed, and Chris put down the book slowly.

“Isaac…?”

“I thought about killing myself.”

Chris swallowed hard. The words sliced through him, like a knife, like a blade, right deep into his chest. What could he say? How could he possibly respond to that?

“…I’m glad you didn’t,” he said, finally.

Isaac nodded. He seemed relieved.

“What do you need, Isaac?”

“Can I…” Isaac fidgeted. “I don’t want to be alone. Not… Not anything… weird, I just…. I don’t want to be… alone. Tonight. If I could… sleep here?”

There were many reasons Chris should’ve said no- the memory, still fresh, of Isaac’s lips against his, cautioned him that this was not a good idea. But he’d said it himself; whatever Isaac needed. And if he needed to sleep somewhere he could be safe, then that was fine.

Chris, reluctantly, nodded.

Isaac walked slowly forward, and got into the bed beside Chris. He hid under the covers, pulling the doona right up to his ear, and faced the wall. His curly hair, straighter when wet, left damp marks on the pillow.

Chris, figuring he might as well, picked up his book and continued reading.

The silence was, at first, uncomfortable, until Isaac’s breathing evened out, and Chris looked over to see him fast asleep. He looked peaceful. At rest, finally; the way a young man ought to be.

Chris smiled, and put his book aside on the bedside table. He lay down carefully, trying not to wake Isaac, and closed his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

When he woke, he was so comfortable and deeply asleep that he didn’t, at first, realise what was wrong. Then, slowly, he became aware of a weight against him; a body against his side, a forehead under his collarbone, a leg against his, breaths soft against his chest.

Isaac was curled against him.

It felt so _right,_ so warm and peaceful and safe, that Chris just lay there, too afraid to end this. It wasn’t that he was attracted to Isaac; it was that he felt so broken, so frayed at the edges, and he hadn’t slept properly in so long, and Isaac was so soft and harmless and _gentle_. Isaac wouldn’t hurt him. Chris felt, irrational and all as it was, that he could find a home in Isaac. That he could be safe with him.

He sighed up at the ceiling.

He needed to get up.

Slowly, trying as hard as he could no to wake Isaac up, he moved out from under him, feeling a pang of guilt when Isaac made a small noise of complaint, forehead furrowing in sleep.

When he went out into the living room, he blinked hard, taken aback by the brightness. He looked up at the clock on the wall, stunned when it read 11:45 AM.

 _I haven’t slept in that late for a long time,_ he thought, suddenly very aware of how well-rested and content his body felt. With a small, introspective smile, he went into the kitchen and started to make breakfast.

 

While he was tempted to put together a typically European meal, with cheeses and meats and dry bread, he considered that Isaac might appreciate familiarity right now. The day pervious, he’d bought bacon and eggs expressly with this in mind; he put on the toast and began cooking, trusting that the smell would draw Isaac out of bed.

Just as he’d finished the bacon, and was cracking an egg into the pan, he heard the tell-tale quiet skid of bare feet behind him. He turned around, and Isaac was standing in the doorway, looking as well-rested as Chris felt.

“Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Chris smiled, and turned back to the eggs. “It’s fine, Isaac.”

“…I kissed you.”

“I said, it’s fine. I know what you’re going through. How do you like your eggs?”

After a pause, Isaac answered, “Hard. Don’t like it when they’re all drippy and get everywhere. It’s gross.”

“Do you want them scrambled, then?”

“Whatever you want, I guess.”

Chris laughed. “ _You’ll_ be eating them, Isaac.”

“…Sure. Scrambled would be nice. Thanks.” Isaac padded across the kitchen and sat at the bench behind Chris, pulling his sleeves down to cover his knuckles, twining the fabric in his fingers. “When am I supposed to meet with the head Werewolf person?”

“It was supposed to be today, but-”

“Today’s fine.”

“…I don’t want to rush you.” Chris looked over his shoulder, punctuating his point. Isaac shrugged nonchalantly.

“It’s just a meeting.”

Chris didn’t mention that their last meeting hadn’t gone so well. He broke the egg apart on the pan, began scrambling it with the spatula. Once it was done, he served it onto a plate with a piece of toast, and put it in front of Isaac, along with the plate of bacon.

“Is that all for me?” Isaac asked, staring down at the bacon.

Chris laughed. “Have as much as you want. Butter’s in the fridge if you want it. We’ll get some ketchup and stuff later.”

Isaac dug in.

Chris cooked his eggs, leaned on the bench opposite Isaac, and started eating. Isaac made a face at the eggs Chris had served himself.

“You’re one of those people who likes them all gross.”

Chris grinned. “You think a lot of food’s gross, don’t you?”

Isaac shrugged again, and looked down at his plate. “Not your food. Your food’s good.” He poked at the egg with his fork, and Chris went still, sensing a change in his mood.

“…Dad never made me food this good.”

Chris, unsure how to respond, said, “My father never did either. He thought cooking was a woman’s job.”

“Dad usually made me cook. I was the bitch of the house, after my mom died.”

That word- _bitch-_ sat heavy in the air, and Isaac put a hand against his face, sighed loudly.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“I’m not usually like this, you know? Normally, all the things he did to me, they fade into he background. I can talk like normal people. Act like normal people. All those years at school, and nobody had any idea what happened every time I went home… I was so scared, but I always hid it.” Isaac’s hand fell, and he sat, staring into space, and Chris felt dismay; their morning had derailed so quickly.

“How did I do it?” Isaac’s voice had begun to shake. “All those years, how did I…?”

Chris reached forward and tried to pat his hand- Isaac yanked his arm away, and clamoured to his feet, backing away. It was turning into a repeat of last night.

“Isaac-”

“I just,” Isaac was breathing faster, panicked, “I need some space. I need some air. I need-”

“Come on. Come with me.” Chris took his arm, ignoring the way Isaac flinched away from him, expecting a punch.

“No,”

“I’m not going to hurt you- just come with me.”

Chris took him out onto the balcony, and Isaac went straight for the edge, gripping the railing, bending over it, gulping in huge, gasped, panicked breaths. Chris put a hand on his back.

“I’ve got you. It’s alright.”

It took several minutes for Isaac to calm down. As he hyperventilated, Chris could feel every single terrifed, gasped breath shudder through Isaac’s body, and he stared out into the distance, genuinely upset. He wanted to make this apartment a home for Isaac. He didn’t want him to feel threatened. He supposed he just needed to give Isaac time.

“This is humiliating.” Isaac rubbed his face.

Chris rubbed his back reassuringly.

 

***

 

Once Isaac had calmed down, and gone to take a shower, Chris went back to Ms Affré’s shop. She’d put a rush on the suit for him, as he’d requested, and it was ready.

She got her blonde assistant to hold it up for him before he paid for it; it was a deep blue, exquisitely made, and Chris felt a swell of pride as he imagined Isaac wearing it.

“Magnificent, Ms Affré.” It wasn’t an exaggeration.

“I am very glad you like it, Christopher,” she said, as the blonde girl put the suit inside a hanging suit bag, “He will be a glorious young man, when properly groomed.”

He ignored the obvious assumption in her voice; it wasn’t like that. He didn’t want Isaac that way. He wished people would stop putting two and two together, and getting five.

“He’s got an important meeting coming up.” He explained, getting his wallet out. “It’s very crucial it goes well.”

“Will he be needing a tuxedo as well?”

Chris thought of the Lunar Ball. “He might.”

“Well,” Ms Affré smiled, “We have his measurements. Just give us the word, Christopher.”

He paid for the suit, and took it back to his car. He drove back to the apartment, and wondered whether Isaac would stick around long enough to dance in the Lunar Ball. Chris hoped he would. Every time Isaac spoke of his father, every time he became frightened, Chris became more determined to be the father that Isaac had never had- the young Wolf had said it himself, when Chris had bought him the clothes from Ms Affré’s store, and Chris knew he had a responsibility to save him from the past, and from what the future could bring.

He ignored the selfish reasons he was motivated by. The comfort he felt in Isaac’s arms. The peace he felt when he woke next to him. The fact he had someone to fill the silence.

None of that mattered. He owed Isaac this.

He owed _Allison_ this.

Chris pulled up outside the apartment and took the suit inside. As the climbed the stairs, he considered that he’d have to teach Isaac quite a few things before dinner; LeCárre was not Jaquez. She would speak English only if Isaac at least attempted to speak French in conversation- even if he failed miserably, it would be an appreciated effort, and she would be gracious. Also worrying Chris was Isaac’s state of mind; he said he was ready, but Chris seriously doubted it.

He decided he’d have to call ahead, this time, and warn LeCárre about Isaac’s past. She was an extremely intuitive woman; she’d be more tactful, Chris hoped, than Jaquez had been.

Isaac opened the door before Chris could unlock it. He stared at the suit bag.

“That’s it, isn’t it? The suit.”

“It is.” Chris held it forward, grinning, as he entered the apartment. “Try it on.”

Isaac took it reluctantly, carefully, holding it like he was handling blown glass. “This is really, _really_ expensive, isn’t it.”

Chris scoffed, though Isaac wasn’t wrong. “I have suits made by Ms Affré, too, Isaac. Don’t worry about anything.”

“But-”

“It’s fine. Really. Go try it on.”

 

Isaac came out of his bedroom in the suit. Chris stared; he tried not to, but really, it was difficult.

Isaac was transformed.

Where there had been a boy, now there was a man. A man with a straight back, a strong jaw, a striking face. His figure was strong and elegant, his chest broad, tapering down to a slender waist; his hands were doing up the buttons of his jacket, and underneath it a waistcoat tied the suit together perfectly. The smooth, dark blue fabric, flawless and tailored, contrasted with the complexity of his face; the strange shape of his left ear, the curls of his hair, the shape of his jaw and cheekbones. He looked powerful. He looked stunning.

“I feel like an idiot,” Isaac muttered.

“You look,” Chris said, blinking. Isaac looked up, eyebrows raised, and Chris nodded approvingly instead of finishing his sentence, because saying _you look beautiful_ didn’t seem the most platonic thing in the world. He stepped forward and flattened out Isaac’s collar, straightened the jacket.

“You look good, Isaac.”

“Really?”

“ _Really._ LeCárre will be very impressed.”

Isaac smiled, bashful, and glanced to the side shyly. “…Thanks. Can I see yours?”

“You’ll see mine tonight.”

“Hey, I had to try mine on!”

“I already know mine fits,” Chris teased, stepping back.

Isaac rolled his eyes and turned away, going to get changed out of the suit. His youthful arrogance had returned, and Chris had never been happier.

 

Isaac changed into sweats and a shirt, and Chris spent the rest of the day teaching him French manners. Isaac kept getting the two-kisses thing wrong, which was a bit awkward at first- in the way a rom com was awkward- but he eventually figured it out. His accent wasn’t all that bad, considering he’d never spoken another language before, and Chris taught him a few select phrases. _Je ne parle pas français_ , for example- opening with an apology for his poor French, in French, would be the best way to appease LeCárre. Also, Chris emphasised that Isaac should address her as Madame LeCárre, or Ma’am; never just by her name. Even if she chose to use their first names, they were still inferior to her, and would not do the same. They had to show respect.

Chris taught him enough to get him through the night, but not enough to daunt him. Isaac was polite as it was, and didn’t need any teaching in that regard- though that was a good thing, Chris dreaded to think what had happened to Isaac whenever he had been impolite around his father.

When 1PM finally rolled around, Chris began to make lunch, this time deciding he _would_ introduce Isaac to a European style of eating- they were eating with LeCárre tonight, after all, and she was practically royalty. He set it all up on the balcony, so they might enjoy the sun; it was Autumn, after all, and warm days would soon be in short supply.

Isaac came out onto the balcony, and regarded the dry breads, meats, fruits, and cheeses with distrust.

“This is that thing you mentioned about ‘broadening my horizons’, isn’t it.”

“You’re going to dine with the great and powerful LeCárre tonight, Isaac- I don’t think you can keep French culture at bay much longer.”

Isaac sat with a petulant sigh. Chris, amused, handed him a piece of bread, with prosciutto and spiced cheddar. Isaac took it, wrinkled his nose.

“Take a decent bite of it,” Chris suggested, reaching over to get his own food, “All the flavours together.”

Isaac, displaying possibly the most entertaining array of expressions, took a bite. Watching his reaction was priceless; Chris could see the exact moment he tasted the succulence of the prosciutto, the heavy tang of the cheese, the light crunchy texture of the bread. He chewed, wonder dawning on his features, and Chris grinned.

“Good, huh?”

Isaac swallowed. “It’s… alright.”

Chris laughed.

Over the next half an hour, Isaac tried everything in front of him; when he’d tried everything, he experimented with different combinations, his eyes growing wide with awe when Chris presented him with rockmelon wrapped in prosciutto.

“That tastes amazing!” Isaac said, mouth full. “How does anything taste that good?”

“We’re in France, Isaac, everything tastes that good.” Chris was smiling. “I’m glad you like it. All of it.”

 

***

 

Before the evening came, Chris excused himself from the apartment and went to the store, under the guise of buying ketchup and sauces for the apartment, along with razors and a few other necessities. Before he bought anything, he stood outside the store, took out his phone, and called LeCárre.

He explained to her, in terms both polite and discrete, that Isaac had experienced severe abuse as a child and a younger man, and that he was of a fragile mindset at present; Chris asked, respectfully, that she try and be as tactful as possible, because Isaac was currently prone to breaking down. She took it well, and agreed that she would- LeCárre was not cruel. She was simply knew her place on the ladder, and commanded respect from where she stood.

When Chris hung up, he felt relieved.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, there is French in this chapter, and I am not a native speaker, so please be patient with me... and, if you notice it's wrong, feel free to tell me!!  
> Also. These two. Are killing me. I love them SO MUCH.  
> As stated in the tags, this is a Pre Slash fic, but... well... if I were titling these chapters, I'd probably call this one DENIAL because, hey, come on, we know where this is headed.
> 
> I just wanted to make sure I had the safety of a platonic relationship established first, before the sweet sweet vanilla sex I have promised you all.  
> So. Enjoy the fluff!!!

He came home, and spent a few hours reading his book- by the time the sky outside had begun to darken, and Isaac went into his room to get ready, he’d finished it. It had been a good one. Predictable, and not particularly strenuous with plot, but good. Simple and enjoyable.

He went to the cupboard and took out his suit. His was darker than Isaac’s; a deep brown, almost black. He wore a white suit shirt underneath, which had also been made by Ms Affré, and stood in front of his cupboard mirror, considering himself. He liked wearing it. Where he felt old, most days, the suit made him feel young again. It fit him well, made him feel as if he were taller, stronger, as powerful and unafraid as he had been once.

He trimmed his beard, ensured it was presentable, put on some cologne, and decided he’d pass.

He went out, and found Isaac standing in front of the bathroom mirror looking panicked.

“I don’t know what to do with,” Isaac gestured at his hair, “this. Do you have hair mousse?”

“No.” Chris considered his hair; it wasn’t all that bad, and they didn’t have time to buy hair products at this stage. That aside, Isaac was more than presentable; he was clean-shaven, for one. “Just comb it, it looks fine. I’ll buy you some tomorrow.”

Isaac sighed. “I’m nervous.”

Chris smiled reassuringly, and reached up to hold his shoulder. “You’ll do great.”

“But what if I… freak out again?”

“Excuse yourself to go to the toilet.”

“Isn’t that rude?”

“LeCárre will understand.”

Isaac looked unconvinced.

“I’ll be right there next to you. The whole time.”

“…Yeah. Okay.”

Chris patted his shoulder. “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

 _That,_ he thought, _would be a bad start._

 

***

They caught a taxi to dinner, because Chris suspected they’d be drinking quite a bit of alcohol- they were set to dine at the _Restaurant le Meurice_. It was only when he and Isaac were walking up to the entrance that he realised exactly how much this would be out of Isaac’s depth. LeCárre was paying them a great compliment, bringing them here; he imagined it was largely due to Allison’s death, and the fact this would be his unofficial welcome into the Lunar Treaty’s community- where he had always been an outsider, he would now be part of the Guild. This was her way of extending the hand of friendship.

The exterior of the _Restaurant le Meurice_ was impressive enough, but it was only when Chris entered, Isaac at his back, that he realised the true magnificence of the place.

Diamond chandeliers hung from the ceiling, gold-framed Impressionistic oil paintings adorning the walls and ceiling, surrounded by golden and silver adornments, filigree and leaves set into the cream walls. The elite and wealthy of Paris were seated at tables of two and four, holding intricate cutlery in jewellery-adorned fingers. They were led to their seat by a waitress with a uniform that was probably equally as expensive as the suits Chris and Isaac were wearing. The entire room was filled with golden and diamond and crystal.

“This is,” Isaac began, whispering.

“Relax.” Chris replied quietly, over his shoulder. Isaac looked the part; he was as well dressed as anyone else here. All he had to do was bluff his way through. “They’re only human, after all.”

Isaac, after a moment, chuckled, realising it was a joke.

It wasn’t entirely true, however; there were, probably, at least several other Wolves in this building. You could bet that, at any wealthy dwelling in Paris, you’d find supernaturals of some description.

They were taken out onto the balcony, to an exclusive private table, with a view overlooking Paris, the Eiffel Tower prettily glowing in the distance. LeCárre, whom Chris had met only once before, was taking her seat as they arrived.

She had dark, smooth skin, and had hair braided back, pulled into a bun of braids. Her face was angular and smooth, lips round and flawless, and her figure was muscular. Elegance, and power, radiated from her. Her blue dress was simple and unadorned, and the gold bands at her wrists were plain, smooth metal. This was not a woman to be trifled with. This was a Queen.

They were left by the waitress, and LeCárre stood slowly.

“Il est merveilleux de vous rencontrer , cher Christopher,” she said, voice deep and powerful. She leaned forward, and they kissed twice.

“Je suis honoré de vous rencontrer , Mme LeCárre.” He said, smiling. He put a hand on Isaac’s arm, urged him forward. “Puis-je introdcue à Isaac Lahey ; une Omega .”

“Bon à vous… rencontrer , Mme LeCárre,” Isaac said, speaking slowly so that he could get the words out right. He looked nervously at her, and Chris could tell he could sense her dominance; an Omega in the presence of a True Alpha this strong would feel like nothing more than a dog. “Je suis désolé… je ne parle pas très bien le français.”

She laughed, and they kissed twice. Isaac was unused to the tradition, and seemed uneasy when he pulled back, nervous he’d gotten it wrong.

“You speak French very well, Mr Lahey, for someone unused to it. Do not be so worried.” She gestured at the table. “Please, gentlemen.”

They sat. Isaac was smiling timidly, obviously relieved to have gotten LeCárre’s approval.

On the table were multiple sets of cutlery, which Chris had, thankfully, told Isaac how to use. Bowls of water, with floating rose petals, sat beside every chair, next to decorated serviettes. There was a glass vase of flawless pink roses in the middle of the table, flakes of gold glinting on the flowers. There was more wealth before them than most Isaac would’ve been paid in a month- probably even two. Chris, sitting opposite him, smiled reassuringly. _You’re doing well._

 

It was a good thing LeCárre was a captivating talker; the dinner was a multiple course affair. First, they had _pastis_ , liqueur flavoured with anise and mixed with water, and picked at crackers and olives and mixed nuts; second, came the l’entrée, salmon with Pinot Noir. It was only when they reached the main course, when the sky was dark and night had well and truly fallen, that LeCárre turned to Isaac and directly addressed him with a question.

“Now, we must get down to business, young man.”

Isaac nodded, very serious, and LeCárre fixed her stare on him; her face was unreadable, and Chris knew that, if made angry, she would remain in control. She was composed, self-possessed, and authoritative.

“I understand you’ve cut ties with your old pack.”

Isaac nodded. “They’re all grieving…. Allison.” He paused, glancing at Chris as if afraid to say her name aloud. Chris nodded, smiled encouragingly at him, though his heart beat a little harder, and he saw a flash of Allison in her grave, white and dead and surrounded by flowers. Isaac swallowed, and continued, “They all had family, and I… I had Chris, or I had no one.”

“I will be honest; it sounds to me, your relationship with Christopher aside, that you’d benefit from joining a proper pack. Would you like to?”

Isaac hesitated, and Chris was torn; he wanted Isaac to say yes, because joining LeCárre’s ranks was an opportunity few were blessed with. But, if he was being honest, he didn’t want Isaac to find a pack. He didn’t want him to go out into the world yet. Not when he was still so broken.

“No,” Isaac said, and Chris couldn’t help but feel selfish by how relieved he was, “I just… need some time.”

LeCárre nodded courteously. “Understandable, of course. You will both have my protection, but I have no expectations you should join my pack, or any other pack, until you are ready- or, indeed, at all. Should you wish to, feel free- but know there is no obligation on your part.”

“Thank you.”

“I will ask you one thing, however; the full moon for this month has already passed, but the full moon in December is really rather soon; tell me, how have you been taught to control yourself on such nights?”

Isaac thought about it. “It’s… not that pleasant, Ma’am.”

LeCárre smiled sweetly, and Chris detected a hint of condescension in her face- not unkind, but rightfully superior. “Believe me when I say I have heard worse.”

“My first Alpha… he’d chain us up, and,” Isaac cleared his throat, “break our bones to keep us under control.”

Chris, who had been unaware of this, started. LeCárre looked over to him, with an expression that was plainly in agreement, and then turned her gaze back to Isaac, saying, “Well, that’s positively barbaric. What about your second Alpha?”

“He… He just trusted we were able to control ourselves, I think. He’d give us a pep talk every now and then.” Isaac laughed apprehensively. “I guess it worked, though, because I’m fine.”

“You might be able to control yourself, but I would view that as a personal success rather than the success of either of your Alphas. Should you need it, the Guild has manufactured a number of secure rooms where you may be contained on the night of the full moon- you have access to these rooms whether or not you’re in a pack, now that you have my permission.”

Isaac nodded enthusiastically. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

LeCárre laughed. “Such a polite teenager. A rare specimen indeed- you are a very lucky man, Christopher.”

Chris laughed too, and Isaac looked down, grinning.

“On matters not related to the supernatural, Isaac, Christopher has already told me you are an orphan- what do you both intend to do about your legal status? Will you become a citizen of his country?”

Isaac looked helplessly at Chris.

“We… haven’t thought that far ahead yet, Madame LeCárre.” Chris answered- though he _had_ thought that far ahead. He’d just been unable to reach a conclusion. They certainly hadn’t openly discussed it- he didn’t even know if Isaac had a legal guardian. For all he knew, Melissa had adopted him. He certainly doubted Derek had, or that he would’ve even been able to, given he was a fugitive at the time.

“Again, I quite understand. I will say this, however; I have considerable power over immigration processes, and you may only have to live in France for a little over a year before becoming a citizen. Should you wish to stay, of course.”

Chris was impressed, and somewhat daunted. As far as he knew, the usual waiting period for citizenship was five years. “Thank you, Madame LeCárre.”

She smiled, elegant and powerful, and he imagined her with red eyes, glowing bright in the night, standing before an army of yellow-eyed betas. She didn’t belong in this century. She belonged with the warlords, with the kings, with the gods of the past that had ruled empires and roamed the earth, seizing control of everything in their path- this was a woman who could rule the world with her words and her intelligence, and she’d never have to spill even one drop of blood, because she had _true_ power.

She folded her hands on the table, and leaned forward.

“How about dessert then, gentlemen?”

 

***

 

They were taken back to the apartment by one of LeCárre’s private cars; a sleek black thing that hummed along the roads quietly and smoothly- their bellies were full, and their heads were light with alcohol, and smiles were abound. Isaac, though he could not get drunk, was more relaxed than Chris had ever seen him.

Chris, as he unlocked the door and let them into the apartment, stumbled, and considered that it was a pretty unfair setup; neither Isaac nor LeCárre could actually feel the effects of the wine.

“You right there?” Isaac asked, grinning.

“I know how to hold my drink, Isaac.” Chris said, as he flopped down onto the couch, rubbing his face, smiling. “That was some amazing food.”

“Yeah,” Isaac said, falling next to him, with more purpose than Chris, undoing the top few buttons of his shirt, “and she paid for it all. She must be _rich._ ”

Chris chuckled. “She is.”

“You’re rich too, though.”

“Not like _her.”_

“Yeah, but you’ve still got money,” Isaac said, somewhat wistfully, “Hey, you wanna watch a movie?”

Chris huffed out a sigh. “I don’t know. If you want, sure.”

Isaac stood, and went over to the part of the bookshelf that housed DVDs. “Are these all in English?”

“I don’t know. Most of them should be.”

Isaac picked out Finding Nemo _,_ hilariously, which Chris thought was cute- more than anything, he was amused that it was in the apartment at all. Then he remembered when Allison had come here as a child, and how that had been one of her favourite films. He closed his eyes as the film began, feeling the couch dip as Isaac sat next to him, and he saw her face behind his eyelids. It didn’t hurt, like this, with the alcohol numbing everything. She was still beautiful. She was still warm, smiling, _alive._ He smiled, glad to see her again.

“Chris?” Isaac asked. Chris felt a hand on his leg, fingers tapping. “You awake?”

Chris hummed a vague reply. He didn’t open his eyes.

“…You’ve done so much for me.” Isaac’s voice was so quiet that Chris could barely make out the words, as the world slipped away, as everything became very warm, and very fuzzy, and very nice. “I don’t know how to repay you. I don’t know what you want.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Guess I just want to believe you don’t want anything in return except company.”

Chris, only half listening, knew on some level that he should reply, counter Isaac’s worries. Then there was the quiet sound of fabric moving, and the weight beside him shifted; next thing he knew, there was a weight on his legs.

He was asleep before he could think too hard about it.

 

***

 

When he woke, he had a headache. Nothing too severe; he hadn’t drunk that much. It was a niggling, itching thing, and he winced, focussed on it as he slowly emerged into consciousness. He opened his eyes, and stared, not understanding what he was seeing.

Isaac’s head was in his lap.

His eyes were closed, and he was still in his dark blue suit, curled onto his side; it seemed he’d fallen asleep like this. Chris remembered Isaac asking to watch a movie. The television was now replaying the Finding Nemo menu on loop. He turned it off, and put the remote back down on the couch beside him; after a moment of hesitation, he lifted a hand, placed it on Isaac’s head. Fingers against his curls.

_So this is what he really wanted._

As he was making his mind to get up, and wondering exactly how he would accomplish that without waking Isaac, he saw blue eyes slowly open as Isaac blinked himself awake.

“Sorry,” Isaac said, sitting up, rubbing his neck. He was looking down, body bowed defensively, expecting to be punished.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to make excuses, Isaac.”

“Excuses for what?”

“Hugs. Comfort. You’re allowed to want that.” Chris breathed deeply, wrinkling his nose at the taste in his mouth; he needed to brush his teeth. “I don’t mind.”

Isaac looked sheepishly at him, hair sticking up all over the place. “So it’s okay to just… hug you?”

Chris smiled, raising an eyebrow. “I just said that, didn’t I?”

“And… me sleeping in your bed? Is that…?”

“We’ll work it out. Whatever you need, I already said that.”

“I don’t want to _sleep_ with you.” Isaac said quickly. “Just so you know.”

“I know,” Chris laughed under his breath, though he had wondered. It was good to be assured of Isaac’s intentions.

“Do you want…?”

“ _No,_ Isaac.”

“Okay. Good.” Isaac laughed. “Wow. This is awkward.”

“Not really.”

“But this… comfort stuff… It’s not easy for me. I trust you, but…”

“It’ll take time. I understand.”

Isaac nodded slowly. Chris looked expectantly at him, and silence fell as they both realised the other wasn’t about to speak.

“I feel gross,” Isaac said, eventually, “And I slept in the suit. Do we wash it?”

“No,” Chris replied, looking down at his own suit, wrinkled from sleep, “We’ll have to launder them. Ms Affré won’t be pleased.”

“I should’ve taken it off,” Isaac said guiltily.

“Don’t worry about it.” Chris stood slowly, and rubbed at his face. “You go have a shower. I’ll get some breakfast…” He looked at the clock; it was nearing eleven o’clock. “…some _lunch_ ready.”

“You’re the one who’s hung over.” Isaac pointed out, still slouched on the couch. “Shouldn’t you have the first shower?”

Chris waved his hand dismissively, “No, you go ahead.”

Isaac shrugged and got up.


	10. Chapter 10

They settled into a routine.

It was odd, living with Isaac, discovering his personality bit by bit, in the pieces that Isaac revealed- but it wasn’t as weird and uncomfortable as Chris had thought it would be. Isaac was polite, helpful, and did housework without being asked; he fit seamlessly into Chris’ life, and Chris tried not to think of Allison, the way he and she had gotten along so well, in a way few parents did with their siblings.

He and Isaac did dishes together; Isaac preferred to dry them, as opposed to wash them. They folded clothes together, did the washing together; Isaac insisted on having different clothes bins- one for dark, one for light. Isaac was good at cooking, but didn’t like doing it- it reminded him too much of the times he’d been forced to cook, every night when he’d come home from school. He was happy to help Chris cook, but would become nervous and agitated whenever he made a meal on his own, worried it wouldn’t be good enough, worried that Chris would discipline him the way his father would’ve. He kept his room clean, and would panic quietly whenever it was a mess, thinking that Chris would see it and get angry.

These things, and many others, greatly worried Chris. Isaac curled himself up, whenever he sat, trying to take up as little room as possible, and often tended towards sitting on the beanbag so he was out of the way. He apologised for things that didn’t matter. He flinched when Chris came close unexpectedly, or reached across him to get something.

He was an open wound.

It was for this reason that Chris was patient with him- Isaac didn’t go outside much, unless Chris came with him, and even then he generally declined. He stayed in the apartment, reading books, watching TV, and teaching himself French. Chris allowed this, because Isaac was grieving. All that mattered to him was Isaac’s welfare.

He ignored his own pain, because it was easier that way.

Besides, he found himself taking comfort in Isaac, even as he gave it; Isaac would have panic attacks, more regularly than not, and Chris often woke to the sound of him quietly sobbing. Usually, Isaac would crawl into his bed, and Chris would pull him close, hold him until he could breathe again. Later, when Chris grew more sure about what Isaac needed, he’d go into Isaac’s bedroom himself, and sit on the edge of his bed until Isaac pulled him down into a shaking embrace.

It was strange. This closeness, this utterly platonic intimacy. Neither of the put a word to it, or bothered to define it aloud- Chris knew what Isaac needed, and he became more and more sure that Isaac knew he needed it too.

They grew closer as time passed. As Chris blinked, a week had gone by and then soon came December, and with it the full moon; Chris took Isaac to one of the Guild’s holding cells, where nearby Wolves and Hunters regarded them curiously. He secured Isaac’s wrists with padded chains, and locked the cell behind him. He sat watching, as Isaac howled wailed and sobbed, writhing, pressing his face into the floor and crying, trying to hide his teeth and his yellow eyes. Chris’ heart ached.

Afterwards, he went into the cell, and held Isaac tight.

“It hasn’t been that bad for a long time,” Isaac whispered, and Chris hugged him tighter.

Chris went to many Hunter’s Guild meetings, gathering with Hunters and Wolves alike, trying to slowly destroy his murderous reputation, ensure the Guild that he could be trusted. Isaac never came with him, though he was invited- but still, the rumours spread.

The last surviving Argent, living with an Omega.

It wasn’t until the night after the December full moon that someone approached him about it.

Zac Lambert was a dual citizen of France and Australia. He had leather-tanned brown skin, steely green eyes, and a thick accent, foreign to Chris. He was unnervingly friendly. Zac was a converted traditionalist Hunter, just like Chris; word around the Guild had it that Zac had been a formidable killer once, and Chris didn’t doubt it. He had a fanatic energy, a very specific brand of supressed hostility. All the same, he was welcoming, and Chris liked him. He’d never been afraid of violence, after all.

“So, Chris,” Zac said after one meeting, throwing an arm over his shoulders, “I’ve heard _rumours._ Are you keeping a little Wolf boy locked up in your apartment?”

“He was a friend of Allison’s,” Chris replied shortly.

Zac, because he wasn’t as heartless and crude as he liked to pretend, nodded and removed his arm from around Chris’ shoulders. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s alright.”

“How’re you doing, anyway?”

Chris didn’t bother answering with the truth. “Fine.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.”

 _Unbelievable,_ Chris thought. “I have to stay strong for Isaac.”

“Is that his name? Your Wolf boy?”

Chris grit his teeth, and said, “Yes.”

Zac nodded and, for a moment, Chris thought he was going to say something else that implied Chris was taking advantage of some young Werewolf- just as Chris was readying himself to punch Zac in the teeth, he thoughtfully said, “Don’t forget to take care of yourself too, man.”

Taken aback, Chris paused, and then slowly said, “Sure.”

 

***

 

Chris came home two days later, after meeting with yet another pack and then doing some grocery shopping afterwards, and found the apartment apparently empty.

“Isaac?” He called out, frowning. He closed the door behind him, and found his spare hand reaching to his hip, ready to pull his gun free. His heart began to beat faster, and he gripped the paper bag in his arm tighter, thinking, _God, no, Isaac, not Isaac too-_

“Isaac? Where are you? Isaac!”

Isaac appeared, in the doorway of his bedroom. It immediately became evident why he’d been hiding.

His eyes were lined with dark eye shadow, his eyelashes thickened with mascara, and his blue eyes were brighter than ever before; his lips shone wetly with pink lip gloss; his curly hair was styled fashionably, waving across his forehead; his cheekbones, already sharp, were highlighted with the barest of pink blushes. The makeup appeared professionally done, not caked on like it was on so many women, and Chris nearly dropped the shopping.

Isaac stood there, tugging at the hem of his shirt, fidgeting, swallowing nervously. He was, plainly, terrifed. Waiting for approval or condemnation.

“You look beautiful.”

The compliment fell from his mouth before he could think to rephrase it; and it was for the best, because would’ve seemed a travesty, to call him anything less than beautiful.

Isaac’s lips parted, and he breathed out shakily before saying, “...That’s all you have to say? You don’t think it’s… weird? For me to wear…” the word seemed to stick in his throat, and he swallowed thickly, “…makeup?”

Chris shook his head, and started walking towards the kitchen. “I’ve told you before, I’m not your father.”

Isaac followed him into the kitchen as he set the shopping down.

“So you’re not… freaked out?”

“No, Isaac.”

Isaac laughed, and sat down, dropping his head. “Oh, thank god. I thought you were going to call me a faggot and throw me out onto the street.”

Chris winced and shook his head, started pulling the shopping out. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Sorry. I mean,” Isaac said quickly, “I don’t want to wear _dresses_ or anything. I’ve just always liked being…” He cleared his throat. “…pretty.”

Chris laughed.

Isaac immediately stiffened, eyes going wide with fear. “What?” He demanded. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No, no, Isaac,” Chris shook his head, still laughing, “Honestly, I…”

“ _What?”_

“I wouldn’t give a damn if you wanted to wear a dress.”

Isaac stared at him. “Are you mocking me? I can’t tell.”

“No, I’m being serious. God, Isaac- I’ve seen _terrible_ things. I’ve seen families kill each other. I’ve seen people lie deceive, hurt, torture the ones they love. I’ve seen bodies so torn apart they’re no longer recognisably human. I’ve watched good people- innocent people- die, for no reason at all. I’ve lost my entire family. What kind of _outfit_ you want to wear,” he laughed again, because the ridiculousness of it all was hysterical, “, _Jesus_ , Isaac, if that’s the most ‘terrible’ thing you can think of, I’m in heaven.”

Still chuckling, he continued unpacking the shopping. “And I do mean that. Wear whatever you damn well want.”

It was only after almost a minute of silence that he looked up, and realised Isaac had started to cry.

“Oh no, no, no, Isaac, what did I say? Isaac?” Immediately worried, he stepped out from behind the bench, and went to him-Isaac reached for him, as Chris put his arms around his shoulders; Isaac held onto his forearms, clutching, holding on hard like he always did when these episodes came on.

“You’re,” Isaac laughed brokenly, “You’re everything I ever wanted.”

Chris felt a pang of affection and sadness, and he tilted his head forward, rested his cheek against Isaac’s hair.

“It’s alright.”

“I _know,_ I _know_ it is, I just,” Isaac took a breath, too fast, too shallow, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,”

“The feeling’s mutual, Isaac. Besides…” he said, as he pulled away, sliding his arms free; he moved his hands around to gently grip Isaac’s shoulders, rub the back of his neck. “…this is a _normal_ environment. A _safe_ one. You don’t have to do anything special to deserve that.”

Isaac nodded, sniffing.

Chris turned his chair so that they were facing one another, and he smiled. “Don’t ruin your hard work.”

Isaac laughed, hiccupping, and Chris reached up to wipe away where a tear had smudged the eye shadow. Seeing him up close really was transfixing, Chris had to admit; he’d done a really good job with the makeup.

“You look far too lovely to stay cooped up indoors. How about we go see the Eiffel Tower tonight? We never actually did it, now that I think about it.”

Panic crossed Isaac’s face, immediately. “You mean… go outside? Looking like this?”

“Why not?”

“But,” Isaac frowned, sniffed again, and blinked a few times to try and clear his eyes of tears, “, people’ll see us together, and with me looking like this, they’ll assume…”

“Who cares what they assume?”

Isaac thought about it, and then smiled. His eyes were still bright with tears. “…You’ll really go outside with me. When I look like this.”

Chris straightened, and grinned. “Just let me put the shopping away, alright?”

 

People did stare.

Chris didn’t give a shit, at all, but he supposed he couldn’t blame them; anyone, regardless of gender or sexuality, would be drawn to look at Isaac. The young man was dressed in a deep green knitted sweater, rich blue jeans, brown leather boots- he could’ve just stepped out of a modelling photoshoot and no one would be any the wiser. Walking next to him, Chris felt old. But it didn’t matter; Chris had been trying to coax Isaac outside, but hadn’t been able to- all that mattered was that, now, Isaac was starting to emerge from his protective shell, even a little.

Isaac was hungry, so they went to _Le Petit Café_. Eugène openly gawked at Isaac- thankfully, Isaac didn’t seem to notice, or care, and Eugène kept his mouth shut after Chris glared icily at him. They ordered a few pastries and a coffee each, and sat down.

“How did you get that makeup, anyway?” Chris was sure he’d remember if he’d bought it for Isaac.

Isaac hesitated. “I got a job.”

Chris stared at him, dumbfounded. “When?”

“Day before yesterday. They give me cash in hand payment, so I get money every time I finish.”

“Why didn’t you mention it?” Chris asked, taking a sip of his coffee. He was relieved to know Isaac had gone out and found himself a job; he was relieved to know Isaac had left the apartment of his own volition at all.

“Well…”

“What?”

“I was at this art gallery, see, because I like art.” Isaac picked up a pastry and began toying it it, pulling it apart as an excuse to avoid Chris’ eyes. “And there was a Beta who worked there, Camille. She’s really nice, and she told me about this,’ Isaac hesitated, “, job, that was opening, so I figured… you know, why not? It’s not hard. It was weird the first time, but I sorta expected that.”

Chris’ mind was imploding with outlandish possibilities. Prostitution, for one. He shook his head, and raised his mug to take another pull of coffee. “Isaac, will you just tell me?”

“Nude modelling.”

Chris spluttered his coffee.

Isaac stared, wide-eyed with fear, as Chris choked. “Oh god. That’s not the reaction I wanted.”

Chris, coughing uncontrollably, put his coffee down and shook his head. “I haven’t,” he coughed, “I haven’t got an issue, I’m just,”

“, surprised?”

Chris nodded, and thumped his chest, clearing his throat loudly.

“It pays well,” Isaac said quickly, as if trying to explain himself, “, because they can’t find many people who want to do it. Forty Euros an hour. I’m really good at standing still, too, so I can go on for ages- I think it’s a Wolf thing. But, I mean, if you think it’s weird, I’ll-”

“It’s fine, Isaac,” Chris said, and coughed again, thumping his chest, “I’m glad you found something you wanted to do.”

“Well, it’s not a _career,_ but, you know, I like the people there. They’re all really nice. And Camille, the Omega, she’s really friendly.” Isaac paused. “Pretty hot too.”

Chris laughed, and poured himself a glass of water. “Good to know.”

 

***

 

They went and stood below the Eiffel Tower, but didn’t go up, because the lines leading up to the entrance had turned into a gigantic crowd. Isaac stared up at it, and everyone else stared at him; almost every person who passed, man and woman, was captivated by him.

Chris felt privileged. That Isaac trusted him, that Isaac was his friend, maybe even the son he’d never had. He felt privileged to know Isaac looked upon him as the father he’d always wanted.

He felt honoured to stand next to him, while all these onlookers were strangers to him.

After Isaac had gotten his fill of staring at the Tower, they wandered around the streets of Paris, passing a seemingly endless number of couples holding roses and chocolates.

“These people,” Isaac said, gesturing at a man and woman posing for a photo in wedding garb, “What they have, it’s nothing.”

Chris, walking next to him, frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Marriage is bullshit. I bet you that two thirds of all these couples we’re seeing, they’re going to break up, they’re going to hurt each other.”

“You… can’t know that, Isaac.”

“What _we_ have, it’s better. It’s better than that.”

Chris looked at him, but Isaac stared resolutely ahead, so Chris looked away. He thought of the way he held Isaac when he cried, the comfort they found in each other’s company, the sounds of Isaac breathing quietly in a dark room. He thought of his wife, of how much they had loved each other, and how cold she’d managed to be, even as she told him those words over and over again; ‘I love you, Chris’.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly, “you’re right.”

 

***

 

That night, Isaac didn’t have an episode, or a nightmare. Chris listened, expecting it, but the night was quiet, and all he could hear was the distant hum of traffic.

He was glad. But he’d have been lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed.

It was selfish, he knew that, but he didn’t dare _tell_ Isaac that he needed help, that he needed comfort; he was barely holding himself together, and the only time he ever managed to feel at peace was when Isaac was pressed up against him. Lying in bed, alone, he thought of how strange that was. He supposed he should’ve felt uncomfortable with it. But he wouldn’t allow himself to become drawn to Isaac in that way. What they had, it was undefined, and it was perfect; Isaac had taken the words right out of Chris’ mouth, as they stood before that married couple. Chris couldn't ruin that by thinking of Isaac sexually- even if Isaac was beautiful, even if he was perfect.

Chris refused to see him that way.

All the red roses, golden rings and white lace in the world couldn’t compare to what they shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno about you, but I was sitting there thinking 'JUST KISS' the entire time I was writing this


	11. Chapter 11

The next day, things were different; like a switch had been flipped. Isaac came out into the kitchen wearing a light blue fitted collared shirt, and the coffee-coloured pants Chris had picked for him, pulling on a knitted cardigan over his head. His eyes were accentuated with bronze-coloured eye shadow, and his eyelashes curled with mascara; it was subtle, a barely-there touch, but it complimented his curly hair and shapely face with an almost unexpected effect. He was being bold in ways he’d never have even considered in the past, as if he were a whole new person. Chris couldn’t help but be proud. That, and a bit impressed- he didn’t know the first thing about makeup, but even he knew Isaac was doing a good job.

“What?” Isaac asked nervously, sweeping hair back from his face. “Is it bad?”

“No. Just wondering whether I’m living with a supermodel now.”

“Shut up.” Isaac rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. Chris looked down at the bread he was cutting, smiling, and Isaac sat down at the bench.

“Any plans for today?’

“I’m… working today. Modelling, I mean.”

Chris nodded, and couldn’t help the way the smile left his face almost immediately. He didn’t like the idea of Isaac nude modelling- the same way he wouldn’t have liked Allison doing something like that. He covered his change in expression by looking down at the chopping board, hoping Isaac hadn’t noticed. “Want me to drive you?”

“Only if you want. I mean, I can catch a taxi if you’re busy.”

Chris shrugged. The Guild weren’t meeting for a few more days, as far as he was aware, so he had a while to himself. “I’ll drive you.”

Isaac nodded thoughtfully, and then said, “Are you sure you’re alright with this?”

“With what?”

“The modelling. The… makeup.”

Chris sighed, and put down the knife he’d been using. “The makeup, I have no problem with.”

“And the modelling?”

“I just…” Chris picked up the knife again, curled his fingers around the handle. It felt comforting, having a weapon in his hands- which probably should’ve been concerning, but anyway. He gripped it tight and took a breath.

“Chris?”

“I don’t like knowing you’re putting yourself into a position of vulnerability like that.”

Isaac stared at him, and Chris warily met his gaze.

“…I’m not a _child.”_

“I know.”

“You don’t have to protect me.”

“I know.”

Isaac pursed his lips. “Do you want me to stop?”

Chris shook his head. “No.”

“You sure?”

Chris went to gesture, and then realised he was still holding the knife. He put it down, and held out his hands, trying to find a way of phrasing it without insulting Isaac’s competency. “All I want is for you to stop if you feel uncomfortable. And, if anyone…”

“…takes advantage?” Isaac asked incredulously.

Chris sighed, frustrated. “I know I’m being overprotective and everything, and I know you can take care of yourself, but…” He looked up, worriedly gauging Isaac’s reaction- to his surprise, Isaac was smiling. “…What?”

Isaac shrugged sheepishly, grinning. “It’s cool that you care.”

Chris, after a beat of shock, smiled as well.

“I swear I’ll stop if it gets weird. And, if anyone touches me, I’ll rip their throats out. Deal?”

Chris laughed. “Deal.”

 

***

 

Chris drove him to the art gallery, _Galerie d'Art Français_. It was small, with a tiny shopfront, wedged between a café and a bookshop.

“It’s not much,” Isaac said, fidgeting with the handle on his bag, “It’s pretty small, but you know, it’s… nice. Camille was pretty cool about recommending me to the boss.”

Chris frowned at him, at the way he was fidgeting. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with this?”

“I’m just nervous.”

“About the… nude part of the equation?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Isaac looked down at his bag. “I dunno. I keep waiting for you to tell me I’m a faggot.”

Chris sighed loudly, “For god’s sake, Isaac,”

“I can’t help it!”

“If that’s all you’re worried about, then _relax._ ”

Isaac rolled his eyes sulkily, and waved his hands around dramatically. “ _Fine.”_

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

 

 

They went inside, and the interior was almost entirely white; the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the front desk. All white. Paintings- mostly minimalist- were hung in straight lines, without plaques or stands. The gallery, at first, appeared tiny, until Chris noticed a staircase at the end of the long, thin room. He guessed the gallery extended onto upper floors.

A girl was seated behind the desk. The left half of her head was shaved, straight blonde hair cascading down the right side of her face. It was difficult to place her age. On many others, Chris would say the hairstyle would appear garish, immature, a cry for attention; but her face was angular and fair, and he found himself, instead, reminded of Allison.

“Isaac!” She leapt up from behind the desk, grinning, revealing a long, unadorned black dress. “Merveilleux, merveilleux.” She shook his hand briskly. “And who is this?”

“Camille, this is Mr Argent. He’s my… friend.”

Trying to ignore the way Isaac paused, because surely _friend_ couldn’t accurately define them, Chris smiled and held out his hand. “Bon à vous rencontrer , Camille .”

“Et vous , Mr. Argent , et vous.” She laughed. “The famous American Hunter. I have heard much about you. You speak French very well, sir.”

Isaac grinned. “Yeah, better than me.”

She laughed again, a delighted sound that came right from deep in her belly. “Don’t give up hope, my friend. You will learn.”

Isaac smiled too, chuckling quietly, and Chris decided he approved of this girl. He wondered whether Isaac would date her. Then he thought of a young woman in his home, a teenage girl, and he felt his chest tighten. Allison’s ghost would walk his halls, and echo her every word.

“Will you be joining the class, Mr Argent?”

Chris blinked. “Uh, no.”

“ _No_.” Isaac emphasised.

They shared a mutually shocked and weirded-out glance, and Camille laughed again.

“Very good, very good. Shall I send Mr Brosseau out?”

“The boss,” Isaac explained.

Chris nodded. “Sure.”

Camille put a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, and smiled. “Come on, then, Isaac.” They turned to go.

“I’ll,” Chris began, “I’ll come back here to pick you up in an hour, or…?”

Isaac thought about it. “An hour and a half?”

Chris nodded, “Sounds good.”

 

 

Mr Brosseau, the boss, who Chris assumed owned the gallery, came out. He was a little shorter than Chris, but built solidly, and Chris found himself sizing him up, visualising taking him down in a confrontation.

“I am told you are the father of young Isaac,” Brosseau said, extending a hand. To Chris’ surprise, Brosseau was not French; it was clear he’d lived in France for quite a period of time, but the inflection in his voice suggested he’d spent most of his life in England, perhaps London.

Chris smiled, and for a reason he could not discern, had to fake the expression. “I’m just his friend.”

“And your name?”

“Mr Argent.”

“Very good to meet you.” Brosseau grinned, not relinquishing his grip on Chris’ hand. “Your boy, he is quite spectacular.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Young Isaac, our newest model. He’s exquisite. Where did you find him?”

Chris, suddenly, imagined Isaac, without his clothes and utterly vulnerable, and imagined this _man,_ in his presence. Watching. It was as if he were imagining Allison at threat, and he felt a violent, impulsive desire to break this stranger’s bones.

Chris gripped Brosseau’s hand tighter. Without breaking eye contact, he yanked him close, and grabbed hold of his collar with his spare hand. He knew how to interrogate. He knew how to intimidate.

“I will only say this once,” he said, quietly, because he did not need to speak loudly, not when his mouth was right next his ear, “, and not again. Are you listening?”

“I- Yes,”

“If you, or anyone else, lays a hand on him…” He paused, long enough for the man to stumble, try to gain balance.

“…I will cut off your hands.”

Brosseau’s eyes went wide with fear, but Chris did not release him. Not yet.

“Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, yes- Yes, sir, you have-”

Chris let him go, and pushed him backwards. Brosseau stumbled, and Chris smiled widely at him.

“Good to know we understand each other.”

 

***

 

Chris went to _Le Petit Café._ He ordered a coffee, in English, because he didn’t feel the inclination to appease Eugène today. It occurred to him that he’d overreacted. In fact, he might’ve just risked Isaac’s job.

 _Because I’m an overprotective idiot._ He tapped dully at the table, glaring at the wood. _Isaac isn’t Allison. I have to accept that._

“No young man, today?”

Chris sighed, not looking up. “No, Eugène. Isaac isn’t here today.”

Eugène, drying a glass with a handtowel, hovered, leaning his considerable bulk against a table edge. Chris was the only customer. “Something wrong?”

Chris put a hand to his face, rubbed his forehead. “I’d like to have my coffee in peace.”

“Has he left you?” A smile crept into Eugène’s voice. “Perhaps for another young man?”

“I’m not _with_ him, Eugène.”

“Then I have been…” Eugène paused, considering his phrasing, unused to speaking English conversationally, “You could have fooled me.” He nodded, satisfied with his success.

Chris dropped his head forward. It landed on the table with a quiet thud. He heard Eugène sit in the chair next to him.

“You say you are not with him. What are you, then?”

“I’m…”

Eugène waited patiently.

“…It’s complicated. I’m his friend.”

Yet again, the word was inadequate; friends did not share beds, hold one another, wake up next to each other. He groaned loudly, and hid his face in his hands.

“You are just his friend?” Eugène laughed disbelievingly. “Mr Argent, I am not old fashioned man. I do not care that you have young lover. Male lover.”

Chris looked up, exasperation plain on his face. “He’s not my-”

“I do not believe you,” Eugène stood, still drying the glass, “But I do not much care. You are welcome in my store, no matter. Yes?”

Chris sighed, and decided he’d take what he could get, if it meant ending the discussion. “Yes, Eugène.”

Apparently happy with that, Eugène grinned, and waddled off.

 

***

 

When Chris arrived back at the gallery, he was nervous. He assumed Isaac would’ve contacted him and demanded an explanation, if his boss had told him to fuck off out of the place, but no text or call had been forthcoming. It had been an hour and a half. Chris sat in his car, not quite brave enough to go inside. He wished everything was simple. He wished he was the man he’d once been; a cold, lethal, effective killer. That man wouldn’t have taken Isaac in. That man wouldn’t be staring out a windshield in Paris, fearfully wondering whether or not he’d just lost the one person who remained in his life.

The passenger door opened, and Chris started.

“Hey,” Isaac said, falling into the seat.

Chris swallowed anxiously. “…Hey.”

Isaac raised his eyebrows, as he did up his seatbelt.  “What?”

“…Nothing.” Chris started the car. “How was it?”

“Good. Brosseau keeps asking how I’m able to stand still for so long, and every time he does, me and Camille just look at each other, like…” Isaac shook his head and laughed. “…It’s hilarious. Our little secret, kinda thing.”

Chris nodded, and pulled out onto the road. “Whose pack does she belong to?”

“LeCárre’s.”

Chris hummed in response. Silence fell.

“…I heard you, y’know.”

“Heard me what?”

“Threaten Brosseau.”

Chris felt fear seize him, and he looked over, expecting to see anger, maybe even hate, on Isaac’s face. Just as he was scrambling to find an explanation, he realised Isaac was grinning.

“…You’re not…?”

“What, mad?” Isaac’s grin grew wider, his mouth tilting up into a genuinely thrilled smile. “Why would I be?”

“…I put your job at risk. And I know how much it means to you to have a job in France, so,”

Isaac shook his head. He started laughing. After several minutes, it became apparent he couldn’t stop; he laughed, louder and louder, leaning forward in his seat, shoulders shaking. He took a deep, loud breath, taking in a lungful of air, and shook his head. He tried to speak, but couldn’t, and Chris became vaguely concerned.

“Isaac?”

“You idiot _,_ ” Isaac giggled, “You _idiot,_ how… How could I be _mad_ at you? _”_

Chris’ frown deepened. “Uh…”

“You _give a shit._ Don’t you understand how much that matters to me? Jesus. Besides,” Isaac sniggered, “, Brosseau paid me double.”

Isaac kept laughing, and Chris stared at him, until it sunk in; Isaac wasn’t angry. Isaac was _happy._

Chris found himself laughing too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eugène is a sweetheart and I love him.  
> AND CHRIS  
> GETTING SO NERVOUS ABOUT BEING OVERPROTECTIVE  
> GAAAAAH I'M IN TOO DEE P WITH THIS SHIP


	12. Chapter 12

December crept on, and the shops were beginning to fill with Christmas decorations. Chris and Isaac hadn’t discussed Christmas, but Isaac had been spending more and more time with Camille and her pack, so Chris wasn’t sure what Isaac wanted to do. He hoped Isaac would want to be with him, throughout Christmas day at least, but he knew it wasn’t his place to make Isaac stay; he wasn’t, as much as he’d have liked to be, Isaac’s father.

One morning, Isaac came out into the kitchen wearing a collared black suit shirt and tight jeans, with cherry red boots, a padded leather jacket hanging from one hand. He was a different man now, more confident, more self-assured. But Chris still saw him as a boy. He couldn’t help it- even after Isaac had turned eighteen, he would still be a child in Chris’ eyes.

“Modelling today?”

“Yeah,” Isaac replied, pulling on his jacket, “It’ll be the last time before Christmas. Camille and I’ll be going out tonight, so I might not be home until late.”

“Speaking of,” Chris asked, taking a sip of his coffee, “are you spending Christmas with her?”

Isaac frowned. “What?”

“Camille. I know you like her.”

“Yeah, but I don’t _like_ like her, Chris.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, smiled. “You sure?”

Isaac made a face, and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. “She’s engaged.”

“…Oh?”

“And she’s gay.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh.”_ Isaac smirked, and took a bite.

“Do you want to spend Christmas with her? Or her pack? It’s alright if you do.”

Isaac looked at him dryly. “No. I don’t. I want to spend Christmas here.”

Chris, only just managing to keep delight from his face, nodded. “That’s alright too. Do you want a lift to the gallery today?”

“Sure.”

 

***

 

After he’d dropped Isaac off, he went shopping. Snow was already covering Paris, thick and frozen; though he’d already bought Isaac appropriate clothes for the winter, he went out and bought him a few more. Ms Affré already had Isaac’s measurements, so he went there first, had everything boxed and gift wrapped. Once he was done buying clothes, he went and bought Isaac some makeup. He had utterly no idea what to buy, so he found a store assistant to help him, and wasn’t shocked- or bothered- when he ended up spending several hundred dollars.

He was determined that Isaac would get nothing less than the best.

He went home, put the gifts in the hidden cupboard where he kept his guns. He looked at the gifts, done up with bows and ribbons, next to the weapons, and found himself smiling; it was a metaphor for his life. Isaac had softened him. Where there had once only been violence, there now existed something gentler.

He bought a Christmas tree. Nothing too big, but nothing cheap either. He bought a few boxes of decorations, frustrating himself for nearly an hour about what to pick, and put them next to the tree.

That night, he pulled up outside the gallery, where he and Isaac had agreed to meet; after fifteen minutes, Isaac swaggered up the street, one arm around Camille, one arm around another young woman Chris had never seen before. He kissed them both on the cheeks, laughing, and then got into the car. His shirt was partially undone, and he stunk of beer. As Chris pulled off the curb, the two girls waved enthusiastically, still laughing loudly.

“How was your night?” Chris asked, though he already suspected he knew the answer.

“Great.” Isaac grinned. “That was Nadia. Camille’s fiancé. Great girl.”

“Werewolf?”

“Yeah. An Alpha, actually. But she follows LeCárre.”

Chris nodded. “You know, if you were anyone else, I’d say you were drunk.”

“I’m not.”

“You smell like you are.”

“I’ll take a shower.” Isaac looked over, smirked. “Why? Are you concerned?”

Chris smiled wryly out the windscreen. They’d come to a stop in traffic. Snow was falling fast and heavy. “Just… old habits, Isaac.”

Silence fell. Isaac turned up the radio, which was a smooth stream of French. Chris had noticed Isaac was listening to the radio more and more lately. Trying to improve his French.

“I’ve got something for you, when we get back.”

Isaac cooed excitedly. “A puppy!”

Chris laughed. “No.”

“A kitten!”

“Not that either. But you’ll like it.”

 

Isaac walked into the apartment, and stared at the Christmas tree, sitting next to the couch, surrounded by boxes.

“I thought we could decorate it together,” Chris explained. “I bought lights and decorations, but I didn’t know what you liked, so if you want something specific, I can-”

Isaac hugged him hard.

 

***

 

They spent Christmas together, that year. Just them, in their warm, safe apartment. Chris got up before Isaac, lit up the fairy lights, got out Isaac’s presents, put them under the tree. Isaac got up later, and they had breakfast together, after which they sat down, cross-legged- still in their pyjamas- and opened presents. Chris, who hadn’t expected anything from Isaac, was given a brown leather jacket to replace his old one, and then Isaac hesitantly handed him an envelope.

“Sorry, I didn’t have much money. So this… This is for you. I hope you like it.”

In the envolope was a drawing. Of Chis, asleep. Chris stared at it, amazed by the likeness, the softness and gentleness of the picture; he’d known Isaac had been learning to draw at the gallery, but he hadn’t realised he had gotten so good.

“This is… wonderful, Isaac.”

Isaac smiled, sheepish and relieved, and then leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Chris, turning his face into Chris’ neck.

“Thank you, for everything,” he whispered, and Chris held him back, smiled against his cheek. Isaac's curls were soft against his face, he smelled of soap from this morning's shower, and his body was firm and young in Chris' arms. For a moment, Chris closed his eyes and breathed him in, holding him close, feeling Isaac's weight leaned against him. It was perfect. This-  _they-_ were perfect. Chris wanted to turn his head and press a kiss against Isaac's mouth, but he didn't- he couldn't stand to ruin this. No matter how beautiful Isaac was. No matter how much Chris wanted him.

Instead, he smiled and pulled back, elated at the grin that was lighting up Isaac's face. 

“Thank _you,_ Isaac,” he said, softly, and resolutely did _not_ think of things he couldn't have.

This was all he needed.


	13. Chapter 13

Chris should’ve been wary of how perfect things were, rather than be caught up in it, rather than be content to be this happy. The Guild had accepted him. He’d dined with LeCárre twice more. Isaac was happier, more stable, and was even considering going back to school. They weren’t having nightmares anymore. Allison no longer lingered behind every thought, every action. She was still there, but she didn’t hurt like before. Isaac laid against him, soft and warm and comforting, and Chris didn't think too hard about their relationship, didn't wonder where this would lead. They were grounded in the present. Content, just to be together.

It was perfect.

Which was why Chris should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

 

***

He got the first text on January 4, when he was sitting in a Guild meeting.

_i need your help_

It was from Scott, and Chris stared at his phone, as images assaulted his imagination; Lydia, or any of Scott’s friends, in the ground, surrounded by flowers and black dirt, skin turning whiter and whiter every second. Death. A funeral. Black clothes.

Then the next text came.

_i made a wolf. i don’t know how to control him. it was an accident._

He breathed out, relieved, and leaned forward onto the table before him, putting his head in his hands.

“…Is everything alright, Christopher?” LeCárre asked.

“Yes, Madame LeCárre.” He straightened up, decided he’d deal with it later. “Please, continue.”

 

 

He got home, and showed Isaac the text. Isaac frowned, obviously concerned.

“Will you go?”

Chris thought about it. He thought about Beacon Hills, about Allison, about the empty house that was waiting for him to reclaim it. He thought about the ghosts that he’d find, the memories that would tear him apart.

“I think I have to.”

Isaac nodded, and Chris knew that wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No.”

“Chris-”

“Just because I have to face Beacon Hills again, and everything that happened there, doesn’t mean you have to.”

Isaac’s face became hard, and angry. “I won’t let you go through that alone.”

“I need you to stay here.”

“You can’t just expect me to-”

“ _Please,_ Isaac,” Chris reached forward, held his shoulders, looked into his eyes, “I need you to stay here so I have a reason to come back.”

 

***

 

So, he went.

At first, he was enraged by how _okay_ everyone was. Scott had moved on. They all had. Then, as the resentment faded, he became glad. They were only young. The fact their hearts had been saved was nothing less than a miracle.

He helped wrangle Liam. He was an angry young man, and it wasn’t the easiest job in the world- but it was hardly the most difficult thing Chris had ever done.

He went home, every night, to a motel. He couldn’t stand to stay in the house that Allison had lived in.

Isaac sent him voicemails and texts and pictures, and Chris called him every time he was able- at first, he couldn’t keep the pain out of his voice, and he didn’t dare pick up the phone, but eventually Isaac became a way to soothe the pain of being back in Beacon Hills. Just hearing his voice made Chris relax.

 

Then everything started to go wrong.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sweet sweet vanilla sex I promised you guys will come in Part 2.... *dramatic music*  
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!


End file.
